Escolar Documentos
Profissional Documentos
Cultura Documentos
Anson Chi, born and raised in New York City, is an author, politician,
model, activist—environmental, social, political—and retired
engineer. He currently lives in a myriad of places, including Los
Angeles and San Diego.
Yellow on the Outside,
Shame on the Inside:
Asian Culture Revealed
Anson Chi
Yellow on the Outside, Shame on the Inside: Asian Culture Revealed
First Edition
Copyright © 2008 by Anson Chi. All rights reserved, including the right to
reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either
are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely
coincidental.
Website: http://ansonchi.webng.com/
For questions or comments, please contact ronpauler@gmail.com
THANKS TO:
“The idealization of this romantic love can be seen as an extreme. It cannot be seen as
a positive thing. It's something that is based on fantasy, unattainable. So, on that basis it
cannot be seen as a positive thing."
This is why the divorce rate is now over sixty percent, according to a friend of my
parents, who happens to be marriage attorney. Please understand that I think relationships
are definitely okay; I obviously have nothing against them. But when a girl wants a guy to do
everything for her or when a guy waits hand and foot for a girl, that is obsession, and as the
Dalai Lama stated: "...it cannot be seen as a positive thing." That's why relationships fail all
the time; that's why marriages fail all the time. A relationship based on genuine compassion
and mutual respect is what maintains a strong relationship, not romance. So I guess I better
show Emilie respect first, before anything else.
My early morning drive to UCI is as tedious as watching senior citizens play miniature
golf, in other words boring as hell, especially driving the same, mundane route and seeing the
same, old scenery. What makes it worse is the heavy traffic, as you already know. But the
good thing about getting here early is getting a great parking spot, right in front of the School
of Biological Sciences. Now I have all the time in the world to plan out what to say to Emilie.
I'm in my first class of the day, biochemistry, feeling very tense and anxious. Time is a
killer especially when you're waiting for the big moment. So I decide, for the very first time
ever, to get out of class early just so I can go to the bathroom to freshen up, you know, to work
my magic and get ready for Emilie.
I'm standing at the urinal “doing my thing” when I notice, at the corner of my eye, a
guy standing right behind me, looking rather pensive and uncertain. There are a total of five
urinals in the men's bathroom, with me occupying the one farthest to the left, the remaining
four are empty. For you ladies out there, please understand that a guy should never stand
behind you if the other urinals are empty—that's what we call gay. Anyway, I finish “doing my
thing” and as I leave the bathroom, I see the guy immediately dashing to the center urinal, to
do “his thing.”
I ponder for a moment about his bizarre behavior and then I realize that this guy suffers
from shy bladder syndrome—supposedly a new disease according to a news article I read a
few months ago—in which a person experiences trouble peeing when there are people
around him. I can't believe this is actually a disease. For crying out loud, AIDS is on the rise,
cancer is everywhere, but we now have a more serious disease known as shy bladder
syndrome! Are you kidding me? What's so shy about peeing? There's a very easy way to
resolve his shy bladder syndrome and since I'm so nice, I'll help that guy out: I'll let him hold
my penis while I pee, just to show him that there's nothing to be shy about. If I can do it,
anyone can! Okay, maybe I won't let him hold my penis—actually, hell no I won't let him—but if
shy bladder is a big problem for him, all he needs to do is drink massive amounts of water,
then his body will have no choice but to pee, even with people around. Do it enough times
and it'll break the mental block, like the mental block a professional baseball player
experiences during a slump, in which the skill to hit is there but something is just in the way
mentally. By drinking massive amounts of water over time, he'll start peeing in front of people
and eventually break the mental block. After time, he'll start peeing normally with no more shy
bladder. Who needs medical school if someone like me can start curing diseases like shy
bladder syndrome? Anyway, I'll stop playing doctor since I need to get ready for my big
moment: Emilie.
Rushing to my molecular biology class, I get there half an hour early and much to my
surprise, I see Emilie sitting in the back row, beautiful and captivating, as the clouds rip open
the sky, allowing the sun to shine brilliantly with its radiance upon her heavenly presence.
Alright, I sound like a damn romance novel, but I can't help just standing there, silent and
motionless, with a totally stunned look on my face—the look of love.
Emilie looks up and smiles. “Hey Johnson. Why are you just standing there by the
door?” I really hope I don't blow this.
“I just realized that I forgot something in my car,” I stammer, hoping that she didn't
catch me staring. I really hope I don't blow this. “But it's no big deal. How are you doing?”
“I'm doing good. How about you?”
“I'm doing great, now that you're here...to help me with my...homework of course.” I
think I'm really blowing this.
Emilie just smiles. I walk towards the back of the room and take the seat right next to
her—that's one small step for a man, one giant leap for Johnson!
“Alright. Let me take a look at your homework,” Emilie says, as I hand her my
notebook. Just so you know, I purposely missed some answers, to make it look like I really
need tutoring. Truth be told, I'm maintaining a 4.0 in the class—or else my parents would
bring back the old feather duster for you-know-what.
Emilie looks over my homework, with meticulous eyes and as I expect, she points out
my erroneous answers and helps me correct them. After she finishes, we start chatting a little
about our past weekend in Palo Alto. “Did you have fun hanging out with Auntie,” Emilie
says, trying to keep from laughing too hard. I'm going to kill Gabriel for having such a big
mouth.
“My aunt and I didn't do too much. We just went shopping for some things. She
criticized Gabriel most of the weekend. That part I actually liked.”
“Did Gabriel tell you that we use to hang out when we were kids? It's been so long
since I've spoken to him.”
“Yeah. He told me that you stopped hanging out with him because he was a loser. And
you're totally right.”
“Haha. No, Gabriel's a sweetheart. I love his upbeat attitude and his disheveled hair,
even his nasty beard. He's a cool guy.”
“You wouldn't say that if you see the way he drives,” I joke, using my humor and
charm to win her over. “By the way, did you have fun hanging out with your boy toy, Ronald?”
I'm trying to find out if they're really going out or not.
“It was okay. Ronald's parents are good friends with mine. He's been asking me out for
the longest time, but I don't like him. My parents cajoled me into hanging out with him for the
weekend since he knows a lot of people at Stanford Medical. I'm hoping to get in after I
graduate here.” This is exactly what I want to hear: “I don't like him.”
“So you two aren't going out?” I ask with a little too much excitement, hoping she
wouldn't pick up on this.
“Would you like it if we were going out?”
“I would like it if Ronald and I were going out,” I joke, catching her off guard.
“Oh really?! Why don't I arrange a date between the two of you? It would be my
absolute pleasure,” Emilie exclaims, displaying her good sense of humor. I like a girl with a
good sense of humor.
“Then it would be my absolute pleasure never to talk to you again,” I counter. We both
laugh out loud, attracting several stares from those around us. Luckily, class hasn't started yet
or else we'd both be asked to leave.
Much to my surprise, Emilie tilts her head slightly and closer towards me, her eyes
locking with mine. I can sense that she's about to ask me something important. “So Johnson,
how come we've been in the same classes since middle school, yet, this is the first time we're
actually talking?” Her question catches me off guard, since I had no idea that she even knew
that I existed all the way back in middle school. Hell, I didn't even know I existed all the way
back in middle school.
“I'm shy because girls find it endearing,” I say to play it off. Emilie starts laughing at my
remark.
“Well, endearing or not, we should talk more,” Emilie says. I can't believe it! Things are
really starting to look good for me!
After two hours of torture—I mean lecture—class is finally over. It's now or never so I work up
enough courage to ask Emilie for her number. She grabs my left wrist, forming a tight grip as if
she's afraid that I'll escape and writes her phone number with her Hello Kitty pen, in big loopy
letters on the top of my hand. “Don't wash your hands,” Emilie instructs, “and you better
call.” She smiles with a hint of seriousness.
I pull out my mobile phone from my right pocket, scrolling down to select the camera
option. With the click of a button, I take a snapshot of her number on my hand. “In the event
that my left hand gets chopped off, I can still call you with my right.”
“I like a guy with a sense of humor. Anyway, I gotta get going. Do call me.” Emilie
departs through the door, looking fantastic in her ass-hugging jeans. I like ass-hugging jeans
—correction: I love ass-hugging jeans.
I can't believe what just happened! I don't know how, but I think I got lucky. Actually, I
know I got lucky. How could I, a certifiable loser—as verified by my parents and numerous
other sources—get the phone number of literally the most beautiful girl at UCI? What can she
possibly see in me? It can't be because of the size of my you-know-what because everyone
knows that Asian guys are small you-know-where. All jokes aside, can it be that Emilie
empathizes with me, sharing the same parental pressure of becoming a doctor, thus, forming
a common bond altogether?
Maybe I shouldn't ask so many questions and just be happy with my situation. And I
should be happy that things are really changing for me, for the better, much better than I can
ever hope for. I've let my parents control me all of my life and in turn, inducing my criticism of
Asian culture. It will be different now, since things are really looking up. I'm starting to feel
much better about my life. Perhaps it's not so bad to be Asian.
9
I hate grocery shopping by myself, especially when my parents make me come here to Culver
Plaza, the Chinatown of Irvine and ergo Orange County. It's always crowded with Asian
people of course, all looking for a wide selection of cheap Asian goods. Now when I say
cheap, I don't mean just the price; I also mean the quality. Many people are aware of lead toys
manufactured in China, but not many are aware of cadmium-laden kitchenware, which has
been linked to birth defects and cancer; or chopped up pieces of bleached cardboard in
frozen wontons; or contaminated, toxic pet food that has killed a copious number of animals
here in the United States; or milk and baby formula laced with melamine, a banned industrial
chemical, the same chemical used in the contaminated, toxic pet food; or the extreme levels
of formaldehyde—normally for embalming dead bodies—used in clothing, and unbelievably,
also in noodles which prompted the shutdown of one of the biggest noodle manufacturers in
China. Not to mention the complete violation of human rights and the advocacy of slave labor,
but of course, Asians don't care because it's always about the money, so ethical and moral
values go out the window.
It's not just with the Chinese; the Vietnamese also use formaldehyde in their noodles,
and the Thais fry their foods with thin layers of plastic lacquer for a crispier texture—whatever
it takes to make a buck, never mind your health. I find it interesting that Asian people like to
buy the most expensive houses and the most expensive cars, yet, they shop for the absolute
cheapest food, groceries, cleaning products, kitchenware—anything else, you name it. Asians
will only spend lots of money on items that they can show off but be cheap with items that
they can't.
In Asia, for instance, there is a flood of counterfeit—aka knock-off—items from fake
designer clothes and accessories to fake Rolex watches and mobile phones—anything else,
you name it. Remember what I said about Asians wanting to show off? Asians love to buy
fake name-brand clothing and other fake name-brand items in order to show off—Asian Pride
Theorem Number 2: Status; because it's cheap—Asian Pride Theorem Number 1: Money;
and it gets them attention from people—Asian Pride Theorem Number 3: Power.
Getting attention is a personal power that really means nothing to anyone else, but as
long as they can impress their friends and family, then that's the only power that they need—
just like Asian parents with personal power to control their kids; it means nothing to anyone
else, but it means everything to them. You can see how all of this goes back to my Asian
Pride Theorems; I really can reveal the truth about Asian culture with just my three Asian
Pride Theorems.
I completely check off everything on my shopping list so I head back to my car without
haste, since my parents always get on my case for taking too long. As I approach my car, I
can see a short, old man with whitish-gray hair, wearing a shirt with the acronym CIA and
below it: Chinese In America. I giggle a little, thinking to myself, What a FOB, then opening
the trunk of my car to put the groceries. He's proud to be Chinese in America—that's cool; I
have no problem with that. In fact, I think that's great!
This reminds me of a job fair that I attended last summer at UCI. I saw a group of
Chinese students handing out flyers and pamphlets, which proclaimed the burgeoning surge
of Mandarin, the traditional Chinese language. They even had a huge banner with the title:
Mandarin, The Language of the Future. How is Mandarin the language of the future when it's
already been here for thousands of years? I understand what they mean about the growing
importance of China politically and economically, thus, the growing importance of Mandarin,
but how many people do you know—that are not Chinese—who actually speak Mandarin?
And I'm sure that the Chinese students at UCI are proud of the fact that Mandarin is the most
spoken language in the world—well, duh! There are over a billion people in China alone!
Mandarin is localized to Chinese people. I don't see how it's the language of the future when
only Chinese people, and maybe a few missionaries in China, speak Mandarin.
It's like with Yao Ming, a Chinese-born NBA basketball player; every person in China
claims that he's the best center in the history of the NBA, yet he's never won a NBA
championship, let alone winning even just one playoff series. Chinese people just jump on the
bandwagon, only if it's something Chinese. If Yao Ming wasn't Chinese, people in China
wouldn't say the same thing about him; if Michelle Wie wasn't Korean, people in Korea could
care less about her; same with Paradorn Srichaphan if he wasn't Thai. Asians love to follow
based on their own ethnic skin color. But following "yellow" doesn't necessarily mean it's good.
Would you want to follow Mao Zedong, Pol Pot, or Kim Jong-il? If Asians want to follow, then
follow on principle, not skin color. Anyway, in regards to Mandarin, it's not even the official
Chinese language! China's official language is Simplified Chinese so even they don't use the
real Mandarin!
I get the feeling that someone is looking over my shoulder so I turn around and sure
enough, I see the old man with the CIA shirt staring right at me. I decide to stare back, not
blinking or moving, like we're engaged in a dual—yet the old man wouldn't budge! So I walk
slowly to get inside my car and my eyes continue to lock with his to maintain our rigid, coupled
stare. He's lucky that I have to get to the bank before it closes or else I'd be in big trouble. I
guess no one's every told him that staring is impolite.
I also hate going to the bank, especially when my parents make me do it, while they sit
at home and watch the news all day, particularly on Asian news channels. Auntie does this as
well; Gabriel's parents are the same. I can save them time and tell them what's on the news
every single day: bad news, murder, bad news, war, bad news, and on and on. Since every
day is the same crap, why bother watching it? The next day will air more bad news anyway,
overshadowing the day before, so there's no point in watching it every single day if the news
just gets worse and worse.
Besides, all news channels are owned by corporations so you get a daily overdose of
corporate propaganda. Most people don't know that NBC is owned by General Electric or that
ABC is owned by Walt Disney. And since these corporations have investment sponsors, that
means that their financial interests come first, not the news. In fact, corporate mainstream
media has been caught red-handed many times for airing "fake" news in order to boost
ratings. If you don't believe me, just go to prwatch.org. But my parents don't care because
they're completely brainwashed by watching so much television every day. It wouldn't hurt if
they actually read once in a while instead of watching so much TV; I can't believe I'm having
to say this—such role reversal!
At least the line at the bank isn't long today. I usually come here to make a quick
deposit each week for my parents, since I'm such a good son—or rather, I'm such a bad son
since they're making me do it. I feel a light tap on my right shoulder so I turn around to see an
old lady, wearing a navy-blue voile print dress, her white hair pulled back with a large clip. She
stares at me like a puppy that just peed on the rug.
“Young man, what is your nationality?” the old lady asks, not knowing that her inquiry
is quite discourteous. I almost got into a scuffle with an old man earlier so I'm not about to
make my day worse by messing with an old lady.
“My nationality is American,” I reply correctly.
“No, no. What is your nationality?” the old lady repeats, mistaken with her terminology.
I feel bad for correcting her, but she needs to learn not to be so impolite.
“My nationality is American. Nationality means your national status, as in the nation of
your citizenship. Perhaps you mean ethnicity or racial heritage,” I correct her, with luminous
clarity.
She looks at me with a confused gaze. “So what are you?” she asks for a third time.
Luckily, it's my turn to go up to the teller window so I leave her standing there, already
answering her question twice. I wish people would understand the difference between
something as simple as nationality and ethnicity. If she looks at her U.S. passport, it clearly
states: Nationality - United States of America. It doesn't state: Nationality - Old White Lady—
for crying out loud!
I don't know why I'm having to deal with old people today. This is the exact reason why
Americans put them in nursing homes. Too bad Asians don't put their parents and
grandparents in nursing homes, due to their austere obedience to culture and custom—or so
they would have you believe. In reality, they don't want their friends and relatives to talk bad
about them for putting their parents and grandparents in a nursing home, in order to save
face. Many Americans can't stand taking care of their parents and grandparents when they
get old. For the younger Asian generation, we don't have a choice in the matter, since our
parents and grandparents live with us when they're old. But on the bright side, when they start
living with us, it'll be our turn to spank and discipline them, like what they did to us when we
were kids! We'll get to tell them what to eat, what to wear, when to go to bed—I can't wait!
Payback's a bitch. Now that I'm done running my—I mean, my parents'—errands, I have to
get home and start doing my homework. Abject slavery never ends!
I enter my house, enjoying the silence, and walk into the kitchen for some organic
orange juice. As I pass by the kitchen table, I notice a pile of letters, most of them opened,
sitting on top of some junk mail. What catches my attention is the fact that several of those
opened letters are addressed to me. This really gets me angry. I hate it when my parents read
my mail. Asian parents think they have carte blanche to go through your mail, read your
personal diary, wiretap your phone using electronic eavesdropping and surveillance devices—
okay, maybe that's a bit extreme. But it's not like I have a secret life outside of UCI, like being
an agent for the FBI or running tactical reconnaissance missions for Special Ops; it's just
simply a matter of respect. I don't go through their mail because I respect their privacy so they
should reciprocate as well. Too bad Asian parents don't know what this word means, literally
and figuratively.
My enjoyment of silence comes to a halt as I hear the piano playing from the living
room, which means that Jordan's back home, probably practicing to become an acclaimed
concert pianist just so that she can prove how much better she is than me—not that it's really
all that hard. Many Asian kids have spent countless hours at the piano, like Jordan and me.
My parents forced me to play the piano since I was in elementary school, telling me that I
would be successful in life if I played well. It's interesting how they started making me play the
piano per the advice of one of their Asian friends. I'm sure that Asian friend advised, “Playing
the piano looks good on the resume, for a good-paying job.” It's sad that Asian parents force
their kids to play the piano—or any instrument for that matter—not for the love and
appreciation of music, but just as a way to get ahead since it looks good on your resume. I
personally love playing the piano, from classical to contemporary, for the pure inspiration of
music. I resent my parents butchering this with their lust for “a good-paying job.”
“Jordan! Johnson! Come here!” I hear Mommy crying from upstairs. Jordan and I rush
up to my parents' bedroom. Mommy is sitting on the bed, while talking on the phone, her eyes
filled with tears, yet, none of them falling. She raises her arm, beckoning us over and mutters,
“Grand Ma pass away this morning.”
10
Waiting at the airport is easily one of those most excruciatingly painful experiences, right next
to getting a root canal. People rushing by, passenger transport vehicles whizzing here and
there, baggage carts overflowing everywhere, the terminal like a city of its own, especially
here at LAX, Los Angeles International.
My parents booked our flight late last night, right after news of Grand Ma's—my
grandmother's—death from lung cancer, due to her smoking more than two packs a day even
though Big Tobacco claims that there are no links whatsoever. I did not cry about her passing
away, not because I'm heartless but only because I never knew her, like a grandson should. I
rarely saw her, only twice during the early years of my childhood, once when my family went
on vacation, the other when I just started high school, both of them for only a few days, and
now, the third and final time for her funeral. My grandmother, on my father's side, lived in Asia
all of her life, never leaving once, not even for a short vacation. I think she was scared of
flying. She possessed a very warm demeanor, from what I can remember, always offering
candy to Jordan and me and always smiling, even with two missing front teeth. My most
salient memory of her involves the news—her watching of it. She would sit in her wooden
rocking chair and watch Asian news channels all day from morning until dusk—no joke.
Maybe that's where my dad got his news-watching obsession from, same with Mommy,
Auntie, and Gabriel's parents, all of them from their own parents.
Grand Ma was a sweet, old lady unlike the typical Asian grandmother, like the one on
my mother's side. That grandmother, whom I call Mean Ma, possesses a furious temper. She
would scold and order her maids around constantly, even telling members of her own family
what to do as if they're her own slaves. She lives in New York—thank god!—which is
conducive to seldom visits to the East Coast. Believe it or not, domineering and oppressive
grandmothers are a part of Asian culture. That's why I can't step foot into Gabriel's house
without his grandmother yelling at him—or even at me! The reason that Asian grandmothers
act this way stems from a type of psychological displacement; they were treated wrong so
they must treat others wrong. In Asia, sexism and misogyny are both pervasive, where men
can seemingly step over women like they're dirt. With this type of prejudice and discrimination,
it's no wonder that Asian women take it out on others, particularly their own children. Also,
family structure and hierarchy in Asian culture play a strong role in the development of this
mindset. Everyone's familiar with China's one-child policy, but what many people don't know is
that many families will throw a baby off a cliff if it's a girl, only stopping until they conceive a
male. In Asian culture, the first son is like winning a biological lottery, even though the
chances are really just 50-50, go figure. So in Asia, men are meant to rule and women are
meant to be subservient. Now I can empathize with why my grandmother, at least the one on
Mommy's side, acts like a fascist.
But this doesn't excuse the fact that I don't know Grand Ma well at all. It's actually quite
common among the younger Asian generation, for us not to know our own grandparents,
even the background of our own parents. It's not because we don't care; it's because they
don't share it with us. There's a saying in Asian culture, which I'll paraphrase: “People don't
remember the loud chatter of the fool, only the silence of the wise.” Thus, Asian parents and
grandparents are rather silent when it comes to sharing their family history and background.
It's the same way with Gabriel. He doesn't know much about his parents or grandparents,
even though they all live under one roof. No wonder there's a lack of communication in Asian
families—no one talks!
I can't believe that I've been sitting here in the same damn chair for almost two hours,
waiting for our flight, the one that's being delayed indefinitely. I've been repeating the words—
slut, twat, douschebag—nearly the entire time I've been waiting here, without fear or
hesitation, because my parents only know common cuss words like shit and fuck but have
absolutely no idea of any other ones. Gabriel and I enjoy saying cuss words all the time out
loud, especially in front of our parents, because they have no clue what's going on. Asian
parents really need to stop being so ethnocentric with their culture and learn a thing or two
about American culture, since they do live here.
Jordan, sitting to my right, is silently reading one of the many textbooks that she
brought with her. I think she packed more textbooks than she did clothes, that nerd. I shouldn't
make fun of her because I actually packed a bunch of textbooks as well, only because my
finals are coming up in a couple of months. If I don't get A's, you know by now what will
happen to me—feather duster!
So you have Jordan doing her homework, my parents reading the paper, and just a few
rows in front of us, a woman yelling at a man. And wouldn't you know it?—they're Asian, too. I
can't help but to eavesdrop since I'm bored, and besides, I'm not going anywhere, anytime
soon, plus it sure beats the hell out of studying for my finals. From what I can make out, she's
mad at him for packing the wrong clothes in his suitcase and forgetting to pack some other
items. The man, presumably her husband, tells her not to yell in public, in order to save face.
And as you now know, saving face is extremely important in Asian culture. After all, you can't
have people thinking that Asians aren't perfect, so everything must look good on the outside,
albeit, everything is completely messed up on the inside. Asians secretly hide behind a facade
of good grades, high SAT scores, big houses, nice cars, successful businesses, but deep
down inside the heart of it all, their family lives are extremely dysfunctional. Look at the
suicide rate alone for Asian Americans, astronomically higher than whites, blacks and
Hispanics. In fact, Asian Americans have the highest suicide rate among women. Moreover,
two million women attempt suicide in China every year, with many more not counted due to
saving face. And in Japan, it's normal for people to jump off the subway platform onto a
moving a train. (This form of suicide is actually considered honorable because of saving face.
But jumping onto a moving train will actually cause you to lose face—and the head, the arms,
the legs, the entire body into tiny, little pieces.) The most disheartening is the fact that Asia
possesses the highest suicide rate in the world! Sometimes, it's not so good to be #1.
Many people attribute the high suicide rate to the pressure of performing and the
pressure of conforming. Sure there's pressure: peer pressure, parental pressure, financial
pressure, blood pressure—just kidding—but not everyone jumps off a bridge because of
pressure. So it's definitely more to it than just pressure. It's really because of the lack of
communication and the lack of affection in Asian families.
In Asian culture, for instance, seeking help for personal issues is a sign of weakness,
and thus, losing face. Once a person loses face, that person is deemed a failure, an outcast,
a leper. That's why Asians stay silent and quiet, keeping it all bottled up. Then they find
substitutes for the lack of communication and the lack of affection through money, status, and
power—because that's all they know how to do! Everyone has to be perfect, no one can have
weaknesses, no one can ask for help, and absolutely no one can talk about any problems or
issues, in order to save face. Asians think that if they don’t talk about it, then it doesn’t exist
and therefore, all the problems go away—wrong! The lack of communication is what
exacerbates all the problems and the issues. The lack of communication is why Asia has the
highest suicide rate. The lack of communication—which I'll go so far as to say no
communication—is why Asian families are so dysfunctional! There's no one in my family to
talk to about my issues and no one to empathize with what I’m going through, because I have
to save face, to maintain the “perfection” of Asian culture. But I become so alone that
thoughts of suicide permeate fiercely within me, almost to the point of palpability. Asian
parents have to understand that their children are not mindless robots, programmed to get
straight A's and to overachieve beyond all measure and above everything else. We are
human beings, too, that need love, affection, appreciation, and communication. That's why I
envy so many non-Asian families here in America. They may not have the most money, the
best cars, the nicest homes, but they have the most loving, caring and supportive families that
will be there for them no matter what the circumstances are and will help pull them through
any problem, big or small. That to me is immensely more important than getting straight A's,
achieving a perfect SAT score, or even getting into medical school—to know that my family
will be there for me unequivocally, with genuine love and undying support. But the only thing I
can hope for is to not get a beating from the good, old feather duster.
“Now Boarding: Flight 6025, Los Angeles to...” I hear the audio announcement for our
flight, loud and clear, which means that we're ready to board an unbearably agonizing 15
hour, non-stop flight, while watching five continuous replays of the same in-flight movie, eating
delicious gourmet airplane food and feeling completely miserable because of the cabin
pressure and jet lag—life doesn't get any better than this! Standing in front us, as we're
waiting in line, is a businessman, dressed in a black suit with a dark navy-blue tie—looking
very uncomfortable maintaining the look of the status quo—carrying a pager and PDA on his
belt, wearing a wireless headset—like he's Secret Service, risking his life in order to protect
innocent corporations—and handling four distinct carry-on luggages: a blue laptop case,
brown nylon backpack, a black leather briefcase and a gray wheeled cabin tote, the
trademark of any successful executive, or in my eyes, the overworked and underpaid. This
man looks like one of those married to his job, talking loudly about a business deal deadline
tomorrow morning. I also overhear him saying that he's been working over 100 hours a week,
since last year, just on this business deal! For crying out loud, a job is just a job!—why do
people make it more than what it is? You do it to get a paycheck, pay your bills, and that's it.
Who really needs to work 100 hours a week to survive in America? And if you really think
about it, the manager at a corporation and the cashier at McDonald's are not really that
different—both work for a paycheck and both have to kiss someone's ass. Sure, the paycheck
is dramatically different, but it's not worth grinding 100 hours a week like a slave, working on
weekends, being on call all night and day, having to drop everything on a whim just because
your boss says so—not my idea of what you call a “dream job” or “miracle job.” At least the
guy at McDonald's doesn't have to be on call or work mandatory full time. Try telling your boss
that you want half days from now on. Too many people are brainwashed by corporate culture,
this farcical cognitive ideology that you have to give your entire life for the job. A job is just a
job, to pay the bills and to have money left over to buy unimportant crap, like the habit of the
average American.
Speaking of jobs, a friend of mine recently got hired at a software company and said
that it's the dream job that he's always wanted. Just because he has his own little cubical
where he gets to put a picture of his family on his desk, along with a cute, little coffee mug
that reads: “World's Greatest Dad,” doesn't make it a dream job—he still has to work his ass
off! He works at least 70 hours a week, including weekends, as well as being on-call for
emergencies—and it's not like he's saving lives; he's just a software engineer! What my friend
doesn't realize is that his dream job still makes him someone's stepping stool, taking orders
from someone above and having to do whatever they tell him to do. Is a dream job really to
take orders like a slave from someone above? It sounds more like a nightmare to me.
And trust me when I say that in any occupational field, there's always someone above
you so just because you're above someone else, it doesn't make you all that special—just
look up, and there's still an ass to kiss. Plus I find it funny that they give out special, little titles
like “Executive Manager” and “Director of Operations,” so that you feel important, when in
reality, you're no different from an indentured servant, taking orders from someone above, as I
have already mentioned. And the moment your company starts doing bad, you'll be the first to
get that pink slip, no loyalty with these loving and caring corporations. I've heard of people
working at companies for over 40 years, only to be fired because their pensions are too much.
Remember: everyone's expendable, even the CEO, all working slaves until they don't need
you anymore—where's the honor in that? Corporations could care less about you since you're
nothing more than a social security number enslaved to make them profit. Ironically,
corporations are required by law to make profit, without regard to any moral or ethical value,
so that's why there's no loyalty, and that's why corporations don't truly care about any of their
employees. Because once they're done using you, they'll just use someone else. But too
many people are living in bliss, in a state of denial and suffering from cognitive dissonance.
People need to wake up and understand that our employment system, monetary system and
every other system, including our government, is controlled by banks using the power of
money. And what is the “root of all evil?”
Our monetary system is really nothing more than modern day slavery, with people
having to submit to employment in order to pay off their debts, even though money, in the very
first place, is created out of debt through loans by banks, specifically the Federal Reserve, a
private banking institution that is as federal as Federal Express. Anyway, you can't pay off
debt with more debt so therefore, this system continues to exacerbate, with billions of people
working like hamsters running on the wheel, to fuel the empire that is the banking system,
which controls the money that controls the wages that controls the labor that controls YOU.
The only difference between slaves of the past and the slaves of today is that today, they are
paid slaves. As Peter Joseph, producer of the film Zeitgeist Addendum, said: “Physical
slavery requires people to be housed and fed; economic slavery requires people to feed and
house themselves.” In other words, slaves back then were shackled in locks and chains and
slaves today are shackled in suits and ties. So instead of living and working like a paid slave,
do what you truly love and most importantly, enjoy life—that's what really matters. Of course,
try telling that to Asian parents and see if you get the feather duster or steel-buckle belt.
The plane's completely full of passengers packed like sardines, so I try to maneuver
the best that I can to my aisle seat way in the back. I manage to get all of my bags up into the
top compartment, next to Jordan's textbooks. I've already eaten a full meal before leaving the
house, so my plan is to just sleep through the entire trip there. I'm lucky that I'm a deep
sleeper, with the ability to tune out my parents if they decide to nag, and best of all, ignore
Jordan if she decides to brag.
It's been quite a while since I've been back to Asia, "The Wild, Wild East." It'll be good
to get away from the pressures and stresses of school. Maybe I'll even get to meet some new
friends. I just hope that the Asians in Asia aren't as focused about money, status, and power
as much as the Asians are here in America—or are they?
11
The plane lands as I start to wake up, the sun shining intensely into my eyes, with a fury like
wild fire. Jordan's next to me, reading the same differential calculus textbook that she was
reading before we boarded the plane. She's a machine, my little sister. My parents are still
reading the same paper as they were at the terminal gate, so everyone's a machine except
good old Johnson. Now I'm hungry, and I regret not eating some of that deliciously
scrumptious airplane food.
After picking up our luggage from baggage claim, we walk outside the terminal to greet
our relatives, just two of them since they came in a small sedan: my oldest uncle, whom I just
call Uncle, and my youngest cousin, Bo. We'll be staying with them for the duration of our trip.
Bo walks up to me, presenting a big smile. “How r you?”
“I'm doing good,” I politely reply. He nods and picks up our bags—one by one—and
puts them in the trunk of the car. That will probably be the most that we say to each other
during this trip, since that's the only English he knows, and I only speak English.
Uncle makes small talk with my parents, leaving Jordan and me to discuss how all six
of us are going to fit into a compact car. After all is said and done, we pile in, stretching our
arms and legs for every little bit of room, grasping for the luxury of comfort. I then realize that
not one hug or kiss has been exchanged this entire time.
Driving through the city is a fantastic visual journey in itself: my eyes unmoving and
unwavering, like a lion's first glance at its prey, locking onto the vast display of neon lights
smothering the cloudscape. Every street looks indubitably the same, narrow and compressed,
with food stands overflowing the sidewalks. I see my life flash before me a dozen of times,
cars running through stop lights as if red's the new green. No wonder so many Asians drink
and smoke; they just live it up now since they'll most likely die driving first. On the bright side,
I won't have to worry about getting into medical school if we do indeed crash and die. Uncle
rolls up the windows as we apparently pass by a slaughterhouse, our nostrils overwhelmed by
the stench of manure and rotting meat. Welcome to Asia!
We arrive at Uncle's house with all our body parts intact; actually, it's an apartment
since everything is compressed in the city. Walking up six flights of stairs is no laughing
matter; try doing it with jet lag and hunger—and two big suitcases plus an over-stuffed
backpack. Alright, I'll stop whining.
Four locks click in sequence, like timed demolition, the large door opening fast and
wide, such that we rush in as if it's Black Friday at a shopping mall. Oldest Auntie, sitting in an
old rustic brown chair, waves us over with both hands. I notice what's on TV: the news—big
surprise. Asians love watching the news all day. The apartment is just like Auntie's house in
Palo Alto, traditional and passé with antiquated Oriental furniture. I see lanterns, same as the
ones from Auntie's Palo Alto house, hanging from the ceiling, with red New Year couplets
covering the walls below, even the wall scrolls appear to be exact duplicates. I guess both
Aunties have the same interior decorator.
My parents hand Oldest Auntie and Uncle wrapped gifts and red envelopes while
simultaneously bowing, a customary gesture in accordance to Asian culture, for due honor
and respect. Oldest Auntie and Uncle bow back, my parents bow again, Oldest Auntie and
Uncle bow back once more, all four of them continuing with bows, lower and lower each time,
trying to outdo each other. Many people think that bowing is a form of honor and respect, but
it's actually nothing more than a form of subservience. Shaking hands, for instance, is a true
form of respect because both people are doing it while standing at an equal level, at the same
time, staring eye to eye, completely equitable in the exchange. However, bowing entails that
one person be lower while the other person is higher, at unequal levels, not at the same time,
not staring eye to eye, inequitable in the exchange. Centuries ago, peasants would bow to
kings, no vice versa. That's why bowing has become obsolete, because it's a form of
subservience. It's only done in Asia because everyone's brainwashed by custom and culture,
which brings me to the gift-giving part, a compulsory gesture if you're Asian. Anytime and
every time you visit an Asian relative, you must bring a gift or money, hence the red
envelopes, which might as well be transparent so that people can show off how much is really
being given. I didn't bring a gift when I visited Auntie in Palo Alto, because she knows I'm an
asshole—and because I'm American. But Asian people don't generally like being assholes so
they'll acquiesce to custom and culture, even if they don't want to. When I visit friends of mine,
I don't give them gifts; I'm sure you don't. Hell, when I visit my local pub, I don't give my usual
bartender a gift—which I'm sure he'd enthusiastically take, while praising Asian culture just for
the sake of getting a gift. What I give instead is a handshake, a hug, a pat on the back—real
genuine gifts of endearment, not like cold, heartless cash. Besides, I don't enjoy buying
people's opinions of me, with gifts and cash like typical Asian people, so instead I offer my
honest and genuine self, like it or not. If I'm required to give someone a gift for meeting them
and for them to like me, then I'd rather stay home. For Asians, It's always about the money.
Mommy, Daddy, Oldest Auntie, and Uncle are sitting on the living room sofa while
Jordan and I are sitting in imperial hardwood chairs across from them. Uncle pours tea from a
black, cast-iron teapot into little porcelain teacups, in celebration of new visitors, as you now
know is customary in Asian culture. While he pours tea for us, I can't help but to notice the
towering stack of newspapers and magazines on the coffee table, a miniature Leaning Tower
of Pisa, ready for a big fall. I glance over to see more stacks of newspapers and magazines,
as well as a multitude of opened water bottles on top of the end table, right next to my
parents. It's unbelievable how Asians love to collect everything. I've been to many Asian
homes, and virtually all of them share the same pattern of mass garbage collection. Mommy's
explanation is that Asian people need to protect and acquire possessions that they
themselves once lost during times of war and economic depression, so therefore, they store
things in order to prepare for the future, an emergency disaster plan of sorts. Her logic
appears to make sense, but how the hell is a crapload of old newspapers going to help in an
emergency? Better yet, how the hell is a crapload of old magazines going to help save a life in
the event of an emergency? The truth is that Asian people collect things because they're too
lazy to recycle and too selfish to donate, or in other words, too selfish to give anything up, in
order to amass all the wealth that they can. Whether they are cognizant or not, collecting
material possessions is a form of wealth, which deleteriously is a product of greed. Don't get
me wrong: collecting things itself is not evil. Rather, it's the obsession of mass collecting,
which displays greed and covetousness, like with Asians.
Oldest Auntie gets up and clears away the tea set, now full with used teacups and an
empty teapot, while Uncle turns towards Jordan and me with fixating eyes that hooks us like
we're two fishes caught in his net.
“Both you,” Uncle says, as he rolls up each sleeve of his green, wool sweater, “need
study hard.” As if I don't already get enough lectures from my parents about this. “Study hard
to be rich.” At least he doesn't sugar coat the real reason to “study hard.”
“Yes, Uncle,” Jordan and I simultaneously reply, with a perfunctory tone that would be
clearly obvious to any person, regardless of cultural distinction.
Uncle knows that we're blowing him off so he quickly announces, “You study hard or I
spank both you.” Is he being serious? I look towards Jordan, seeing her jaw drop deeply; I
guess that answers my question. “No more talk,” Uncle instructs, “now dinner.”
It's customary in Asian culture for the men to sit around and not do shit, while the
women cook the meal, set the table, serve the food, clean up the table, and last but not least,
wash the dishes. In fact, it's considered disrespectful and ill-mannered for men to assist in the
process. As you already know, misogyny is pervasive in Asia, where men are seemingly
allowed to step over women like they're dirt. Even Confucius said that “only ignorant women
are virtuous.” Now I'm all for somebody else doing my chores, writing my research papers
and taking out the trash on Wednesdays but not at the expense of someone else, especially
not for the egregious purpose of sexism. Instead of sticking around and not do shit, I decide to
take a walk outside, since I don't want to be ostracized for helping with dinner, plus, I don't feel
like getting another lecture again about having to “study hard.”
Upon opening the main door of the apartment lobby, I can see the sun with reddish-
gold highlights surrounding its majestic luster, starting to set below the white cumulus clouds
lazing above. It's surprising that I can actually see the sun, with the air so heavily polluted with
industrial soot and smog from the deluge of cars; that's Asia for you! Who cares about air
quality when there are more important things like money, status, and power. If you know me
by now, you know that I'm just kidding.
Walking on the sidewalk is quite a difficult task in itself, particularly here in Asia. The
pavement seems to merge with the street, more often than not, without warning or indication.
What's worse is that my situation is exacerbated by close-range maniacal drivers, seemingly
trying to hit human targets—like me—for points. No wonder so many Asians are moving to
America—I, too, wouldn't be able to cope with this kind of lifestyle. It's a good thing that I have
to head back for dinner, thus, thankfully and graciously ending my short and very dangerous
walk.
I enter the apartment just in time for dinner. No one is seated yet because assigned
seating is customary in Asian culture, with the head of the table generally reserved for the
head of the household—that would be Uncle. In Asia, the men usually wear the pants in the
family, however, some women like my grandmother, Mean Ma, “have the balls” to wear the
pants. Go get 'em, grandma!
With all of us at the kitchen table, Oldest Auntie starts serving chicken feet soup,
handing me bowl after bowl to pass down the family assembly line. Bo, who's been rather
quiet, smiles as I give him the bowl with the biggest chicken feet. Most Americans would
probably feel squeamish at the thought of chicken feet in their soup, but it's actually quite
delectable. Next on the menu is sautéed beef with broccoli and bean sprouts in lemongrass
sauce. Everyone digs in with their chopsticks, like sharks in a feeding frenzy. All Americans
would feel squeamish at the incessant double-dipping of chopsticks in the main entrée. All the
saliva, spit, and germs becoming community property for everyone to share. Many people
would consider this unsanitary, and I'd say that they're right. No wonder avian flu spreads like
wildfire in Asia—they might as well eat food from each others' mouths. But you only live once
so out of sight, out of mind, as I continue to dig in.
Both Mommy and Daddy start talking to Uncle and Oldest Auntie about my future—I
mean, their future—plan for medical school. My parents express grave concern about the
tuition costs, while Uncle explains that I'll make more than enough money to pay for
everything. Oldest Auntie declares that we must sell stocks in order to supplement the
medical school fund. Uncle interjects with his idea of selling land, land in the family for nearly
five generations. During the entire exchange, I remain reticent for I know that I have no say in
this, even though it's my own damn life. Plus, I don't want more spanking threats from Uncle,
so I sit quietly, smiling without discernment.
After they're through with me, they move on to Jordan but without worries or concerns
this time. They discuss how glad and proud they are of Jordan, unlike me the black sheep of
the family. All of them, including Jordan, continue to denigrate me with insults of indolence
and ignorance. I guess the fact that I'm sitting right in front of them is of little—actually no—
consequence. Remember the old man with the CIA shirt and his constant, unwavering stare?
I guess it's an Asian thing: no shame and no humility. Why talk behind someone's back when
you can talk in front of them? Why talk behind someone's back when you can just stare at
them? I wish I had the bravado to stand up for myself, to tell them that I'm sick of this Asian
culture nuthugging. But like the vast majority of Asians, I have to keep quiet and remain silent
about the truth. I just wish that there was a way for me to reveal the truth—or rather truths—
about Asian culture to the rest of the world.
“Do you...,” Bo asks Jordan, thinking hard of the right English words to say, “like the
dinner?”
“Yes,” Jordan replies with reproach, not even looking at Bo.
“The food's delicious, Bo,” I quickly add, intervening. I know why Jordan's acting this
way. She thinks that Bo is below her because he didn't go to college, so he's not worthy to talk
to her. What is she—a stuck-up, eminent princess? I find it rather disappointing that Asian
people have to “judge a book by its cover.” Bo works in Uncle's restaurant, so apparently,
he's a loser. But it's not his fault. Asians are notorious for forcing their children to work in the
family business—typically a restaurant. This is one reason why Asians have such big families,
in order to get free slave labor from their children. Going back to Princess Jordan, the whole
“What do you do?” mentality is pervasive among Asians, sizing you up to see if you're worth
talking to. Asian girls are especially guilty of this. I know so many Asian girls that will not date
a guy unless he has a college degree. Pray tell, does college teach you how to find the right
guy?—No. Does college teach you how to find a good boyfriend?—No. So what the hell does
being a college graduate have anything to do with relationships?—one word: status. It's all
about status, aka image. Most Asian girls will only date guys that look “good on paper.” Who
wants to date a nice guy, with a strong moral character and a benevolent disposition? Screw
that! They want a guy that's rich, that buys them all the stupid crap that they'll ever want, a
guy willing to be the ball to their chain. That's why I'm surprised that Emilie's giving me the
time of day. Maybe it's a good idea that I don't tell her any of this.
“Bo, on behalf of the family, thank you for picking us up from the airport,” I announce,
to show him my gratitude. I can tell that Bo doesn't understand what the hell I just said, since
he's giving me a blank stare, but he smiles anyway, a smile that reveals genuine respect and
regard. This is probably the first time in a long time that anyone's shown any appreciation
towards him.
Dinner is almost over, with most of the meal in our bellies. I have a couple of bites left
on my plate, but I can't leave the table until I'm done eating everything, every last grain of rice.
I've been forced to do so since I was a kid, because I was told that wasting food is bad luck,
creating an ominous future full of failure and misfortune. But the truth—the truth that Asian
people won't dare tell you—is that it's all about control. If you're able to force your kids to eat
everything, even the very last tiny grain of rice in the bowl, then you'll be able to control them
—control everything about them—at a very young age. After all, children are highly
impressionable. If you can make them eat something as insignificant as a microscopic tiny
grain of rice, then you can eventually control what they do, how they think, what kind of
grades they get and most importantly, what they become, particularly their future profession, if
you care to guess the only two. Control them as kids so that you can control them as adults.
Make them subservient as kids so that you can make them subservient as adults. That's the
reason why so many Asian kids become doctors and lawyers, not because they truly want to,
but because they've been conditioned by their parents with this method of control, this power
of control. And as I've revealed to you before, Asian children are raised as prize-winning
sheep in order to become future doctors and lawyers, ultimately functioning as a retirement
fund in order to pay for their parents' retirement, so that their parents can live in a big house
and drive a nice luxury car, when it's all said and done. So there you have it: all this control,
manipulation, and power starts at a very young age, from the very bottom, with just a little
grain of rice. Now you know why the staple food of Asian culture is rice.
12
Grand Ma's wake is scheduled for nine o'clock at a local funeral parlor, just a few blocks down
the street near a parking lot, making it convenient for everyone. Uncle, Oldest Auntie, and Bo
left approximately an hour ago, in order to prepare for the arrival of guests, because improper
funeral arrangements can wreak disaster and misfortune upon the family of the deceased, or
in other words, bring bad luck that'll cause them to lose money. My parents are getting ready
as well as Jordan and me. I've been told that we're skipping breakfast, to pay due respect for
the deceased. It doesn't help that mounds of food—apples, oranges, bananas, crackers and
various types of good-luck candy—are placed all over the apartment in large, golden bowls,
as a ceremonial offering for Gran Ma's passing. All over the apartment, in addition, are red
leaflets and red joss papers, with red couplets overlaying the walls. I find it ironic that it's
forbidden to wear red at an Asian funeral, yet, homes can be enshrouded with red all over, for
happiness and good luck. I guess they don't want that happiness and good luck being wasted
on the dead, since they'll need it for themselves and their stock portfolio.
After about half an hour, my parents, Jordan, and I walk over to the funeral parlor, even
though I suggest taking a taxi as a more prudent option, since it wouldn't look too good if all of
us died at the hands of crazy Asian drivers before the funeral. We make it there in one piece
and enter the main entrance of the reception lobby. Each of us is given the following: incense,
an empty red envelope, and an armband, except that mine is white—so is Jordan's. Uncle,
Oldest Auntie, my parents, and the elderly are all wearing black bands around their arms. I
understand the reason why: deference. According to Asian custom, older people should not
show respect to younger people, dead or alive. The white armbands act as a visual aid, a
reminder to put the young ones in their place. Moreover, Asian funeral rites and obsequies, as
well as burial customs, are determined by the age of the deceased, but more importantly,
status and position in society. So even when you die, you can't escape the money-status-
power influence of Asian culture.
Bo greets us as we make our way into the corridor of the main room. He joins us to
light up the incense—provided to each of us earlier—in order to pay our respects, as is
customary at an Asian funeral. We approach the tall altar table, constructed of solid rosewood
in a dark cherry matte finish, topped with two bowls of fruit and good-luck candy, and a big
picture of Grand Ma in the middle. Right below the altar is an urn, full of burned joss paper
and prayer money, in order to provide Grand Ma with sufficient income in the afterlife. I think
to myself, What could Grand Ma possibly buy in heaven? A BMW? A Big Mac? Cigarettes?
That's what got her in this mess in the first place! Even after death, Asian people can't let go
of their obsession with money.
Thereafter placing the lit incenses in the burner, we move towards the obligatory
donation box, as money is always offered to show respect to the family of the deceased,
supposedly to help defray the costs of the funeral. I say “supposedly” because that's the
same thing I've been told about giving cash at Asian weddings—“to help defray the costs”;
the same thing I've been told about giving cash at Asian tea ceremonies—“to help defray the
costs”; the same thing I've been told about giving cash at New Year's—“to help defray the
costs”; the same thing I've been told about giving cash at every, single Asian ceremony—
even for a ceremony that celebrates an Asian baby being alive for just a few months! I hope
you are starting to see the pattern here: for every occasion, there's money to be made. No
one wants to pay for the costs so make someone else pay for it, plus, you'll likely end up
making a profit, which is really the objective anyway, because it's always about the money.
Bo leads us towards the front row, where the seats are completely empty. It's surprising
that my other relatives haven't shown up yet. After sitting for a while, I start to get dizzy from
the spuming smoke, coming from all that burned incense, my contact lenses beginning to dry
up as a result. Jordan hits me on my left arm because I'm sitting too close to her—what love
from my little sister. Everyone else around the room is quiet—too quiet—probably meditating,
waiting for the sermon to begin. All of the sudden, I hear several ladies crying out, wailing as
loud as they can, like it's a competition and the prize is a pot of cash—literally. It's considered
good luck in Asian culture to wail as loud as possible, just in case the deceased has left a
large fortune, all the riches going to the loudest. Fake crying for money; these ladies should
consider a career in Hollywood with their affectation. And the Oscar goes to...
As if this isn't bad enough, all of the lady guests in the room, including those in my
family, are dressed up entirely in designer apparel, carrying brand name hand bags, flaunting
glittering jewelry from head to toe and wearing full facial makeup as if they are about to do a
magazine photo shoot, again like it's a competition. Remember the BMW 550i competition,
the invisible competition between my parents and my neighbors? Are they the same ones that
set up this competition at Grand Ma's funeral? What are they competing for? You guessed it:
status. In Asian culture, only traditional hemp cloth mourning clothes are to be worn to a
funeral. Furthermore, guests are not permitted to wear jewelry, based on the superstition that
ghosts will take away all the wealth. I guess they threw this tradition out the window, because
how else are you going to show off your wealth, status, and position in society? Even at a
funeral, it's always about the money.
Speaking of superstitions, Asian culture has a notoriously long laundry list. From
“Never point at the moon or your ears will get chopped off” to “Do not keep a pet turtle or it
will slow down your business,” Asians believe and practice the silliest, most asinine
superstitions. It wouldn't surprise me if there are more superstitions than there are word
characters in the Chinese, Korean, and Japanese languages combined! I remember reading a
news article which stated that 90% of China's middle school students have actually had their
fortune told; I can only imagine what the statistics are for the other Asian countries. I know
that there are superstitions in every culture, but here's what's interesting: see if you can find
the pattern for the following superstitions:
1. Do not use knives or scissors on New Year's Day as this will cut off fortune.
2. Sweeping or dusting should not be done on New Year's Day for fear that good fortune
will be swept away.
3. Do not wash your hair because it would mean washing away good fortune for the New
Year.
4. Black is the color of feces and wearing it will bring disaster and bad fortune.
5. Females should not pierce their ears because wealth would fall through the holes.
6. Bind fingers at a young age so that holes don't develop, otherwise, wealth will leak out
of the hands.
For crying out loud! As if Asian women haven't suffered enough from feet binding, do they
now have to bind their fingers in order to fulfill a ludicrous superstition? I hope you can see
that the pattern has to do with fortune and wealth, aka money. The vast majority of Asian
superstitions has to do with fortune and wealth, aka money, since it's always about the money.
Asian people are so obsessed with money, that they create superstitions in order to give them
a feeling of control, even though they're not in control—and never will be. Remember how
Asian parents love making their kids eat every small microscopic grain of rice from their
bowls? It's about this idea of control, this imaginary abstract idea of control, that they can
control everything, specifically good fortune and wealth, aka money. This illusion provides
them that “warm, fuzzy feeling,” so that everything will be okay, when in fact, it's just all in
their heads! Asians create belief systems that they use to manage their fears and anxieties;
superstitions are a form of those systems. As Edmund Burke said, “Superstition is the religion
of feeble minds.” Now you see why there are so many superstitions here at Grand Ma's
funeral. Asians are insecure about their own mortality and seek to deny it by using incredibly
complex belief systems to downplay its significance, in order to appease their own fears and
anxieties. They can't accept the fact that someday they will die so they need to at least
believe in something, even something as preposterous as superstitions, just to placate their
own fears and anxieties. I'm starting to sound like a damn psychoanalyst!
Jordan punches me in the left arm again, this time signaling me to approach the casket
—a simple nudge would suffice! I walk up, passing a salute of white flower bouquets, to see
Grand Ma, her wax-like face exhibiting such a peaceful and solemn elegance. I stare at her,
my body motionless and my eyes indifferent, not knowing exactly what I should do. I can see
my parents crying—the whole room is crying. I just...can't cry. I know that I've never been
close to Grand Ma, but something else is preventing me from crying for her, something that's
clutching my will to express any emotion. After all these years, now I know what it is: my
parents. Though not my parents per se, but the way they brought me up, the way I was
raised. I was never taught to express my feelings and never taught on how to react at times of
emotional stress. I was only taught to get good grades, to get into a good college, to get into a
good medical school, to get a good job—but never taught how to express my emotions. I
really am just a robot. I've become a robot, without love or affection from my parents—no
hugs, no kisses, not even a handshake from them, my entire life. And now when I'm faced
with the need to cry, I can't...I just can't do it. I just don't know how...
I walk back to my seat and sit silently, my face buried in my hands. I need some time to
think. Jordan is looking at me with a queer eye, as if I've been vilified as an outcast of the
family—and I don't blame her. What type of person can't cry at his own grandmother's
funeral? What kind of person can't express a single emotion at the sight of a deceased
person? Am I really heartless? Or did I just never had a heart to begin with?
I continue to sit there by myself, ruminating about the gravitas of my personal crisis. I
wonder if I'm the only one in the room not crying. I glance over at Bo, who's also just sitting
there, fixed and stationary in his seat. Perhaps it's not just me. Perhaps Bo is thinking the
same thing. Our austere upbringing is probably the reason why we're both sitting in our seats,
unmoving and static in our body language. I guess it's not just me, so now, I don't feel too bad.
In fact, I should appreciate everything my parents have done for me, even their mission to
raise me with a strict, austere upbringing. Thank you, Mommy and Daddy, for turning me into
an emotionless robot, just for the sake of money, status, and power, so that you can retire in a
big luxury mansion at my expense once I'm a rich doctor, even though I've always wanted to
be a writer instead; I seriously need counseling.
I've been sitting here for almost an hour so I decide to get up and go outside. Notice I
didn't say “take a walk outside” because I really don't feel like joining Grand Ma today. I
depart through the parlor hallway and upon opening the main entrance door, I see a group of
eight men—most of them elderly—laughing and shouting as if it's a New Year's party and not
a funeral. Intrigued and curious, I walk up to them to see what's going on. One of the men,
approximately in his late eighties—judging by the intense wrinkles around his eyes and
blinding white hair—is holding playing cards in his left hand and money in his right. The man
across from him, much younger, approximately in his forties—judging by his receding hairline
and slight patches of gray hair—slams down his cards and jumps up in jubilation, waving his
hands high in the air, as if he's the main attraction of Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade®. I
can't believe that they're actually gambling, with Grand Ma's casket only a few feet away! I
ask the man in his forties why they're gambling, and he explains that it's an Asian custom—
also superstition—to gamble in order for the gambling noises to scare the ghosts away. As if
the donation box isn't enough, do they now have to make money gambling? Have they no
shame? All these superstitions without any sense of respect, morality, or ethics. I guess
money is king in Asia. And whom does this king rule over?
Interlude
13
There's no place like home—actually, there is, or rather, there are: Beverly Hills, San Jose, La
Jolla, just to name a few, but it's still good to be back in Irvine. My parents planned for us to
stay at Uncle and Oldest Auntie's until the weekend, but they had to rush back to work,
Jordan had to rush back to study—the nerd that she is—and I had to rush back—against my
own accord—to prepare for “every pre-med student's worst nightmare”, the MCAT. The
MCAT, Medical College Admission Test, is a standardized examination, also known as the
“test of death” for those who put their entire life's meaning into it; if you're a pre-med student,
it will make or break you. And if it breaks you, then you're...broken? Alright, maybe it's not the
end of the world, but if you have Asian parents, it's pretty much the end, unless you settle for
being a lawyer. Now I have nothing against lawyers, but all Asian parents know that it's
second to being a doctor. Anyway, preparing for the MCAT isn't as easy as just cramming the
day before. In fact, you'll have to prepare as early as freshman year, by maintaining an
exceedingly high GPA. If I have any hope of getting into a good medical school, I'll pretty
much have to get above a 3.8, which—don't tell my parents—I don't have, with only a 3.7. The
MCAT itself is a grueling day-long examination that covers physics, chemistry, biology, as well
as reading and writing comprehension. I really have to do well on my MCAT to even have a
chance of getting into medical school. And if I don't do well...I don't even want to think about it.
Now that I'm back, I have to make a few calls. But whom should I call first?—my
incorrigible best friend Gabriel or my soon-to-be hot girlfriend Emilie? As the judiciously wise
Michael Scott, from the American TV series The Office, once said: "Bros before hoes." But
then again, Gabriel can wait, since he doesn't exactly have the nicest ass and sexiest pair of
legs like Emilie.
I'm so nervous that I drop my cordless phone on the kitchen floor, right as I'm dialing
Emilie's number. What do I have to be so nervous about? I like her and she likes me—at least
I hope she still does. Gabriel's right—I really need help with my social life.
I decide to go to the refrigerator to get a drink of distilled water, to soothe my parched
throat and ease my nervousness. Perhaps I shouldn't call her since I'll just see her in class; or
perhaps I should let her call me; or perhaps I'm just being an idiot for thinking too much into
this.
As I go back to my room to get the phone, I just now remember that I dropped it on the
kitchen floor. What's wrong with me? Why am I so nervous? I'm just glad I'm not on candid
camera or else I'd be a complete laughing stock. I head back to the kitchen, picking up the
phone. I look at it, staring at the numbers, taking a long, deep breath and exhaling slowly,
slow enough to be inaudible. I gently press each number, thinking if I should back out by
hitting the cancel button. The first ring comes, then the second, then the third. Maybe I'll luck
out with just leaving a message.
"Hello?" an unrecognizable voice gently mutters.
“Emilie?” Maybe I dialed the wrong number.
“Johnson?” It's Emilie's voice.
“Hey, yeah, it's me. You sound sleepy. Did you forget whom I was?” I should stop
being so paranoid.
“Hehe. No. I just woke up and you sound...different. Maybe you're finally going through
puberty,” Emilie teases, giggling. “You sound just like my little sister.”
I tease back, imitating my best Michael Jackson impression, “Do I, baby?”
“Hehe, that's pretty good. So what's up?”
“Nothing much. I just got back. I wanted to call and check up on you to make sure
you're not violating your probation,” I continue teasing.
“Well, if I'm on probation, then I guess I'm stuck at home, and I'll never have to see you
again,” Emilie shoots back. I don't like where this is going.
“You're not getting off that easy. As your newly appointed parole officer, I'm requesting
—demanding—that I see you tonight, in handcuffs, cuffed to your bed, for precautionary and
safety measures of course.”
“Hehe. Pretty smooth but I think I'll pass. Let's go out tonight instead. I don't have any
plans. What about you?” Emilie asks, her lack of plans being music to my ears.
“None at all. What do you feel like eating?”
“Being that I'm Korean, let's go eat some Korean food. Maybe we should go to
Koreatown. I haven't been there in so long.” For Emilie, I'll go anywhere, even ethnocentric
Koreatown.
“Sounds like a date. What time should I pick you up?” I ask, jumping up and down in
excitement, like a kangaroo shot in the ass with a tranquilizer gun.
“Well, as my newly appointed parole officer, you should know my time schedule and
curfew, right?” Emilie jokes, her sense of humor even more resplendent than her beauty.
“Haha...pretty funny. Alright, how about five o'clock? I need to get my nails and
makeup done,” I joke reciprocally.
“Seriously?” Emilie gasps.
“No...not seriously. I'm not Gabriel.”
“Haha. Well, if you were, you'd be very pretty like him.”
“I don't want to think of him as pretty.”
“Alright then, five o'clock. Let me give you my address.”
While I'm writing down the directions, I display an ineffably big smirk on my face, as if
I've been daydreaming about Emilie all day long. Jordan walks past me and gives me a queer
eye, the same eye at Grand Ma's funeral.
“Johnson, why do you look like an idiot?” Jordan dares to ask, not thinking before she
speaks—as always.
“I have a date tonight,” I whisper to her, covering the bottom part of the phone with my
hand.
“Who the hell would want to date you?” Jordan persists, looking as if she's ready to
start a fight.
“Why do you have to be so negative all of the time, Jordan?”
“Because you're a loser.” Jordan walks out of the kitchen and back upstairs to her
room. I don't understand her sometimes—hell, all of the time. She never used to be like this.
We use to be able to talk without being at each others' throats. But now, something has
changed. She's completely different now that she's going to Stanford. Is she stressed out from
all of her studying, so she has to take it out on me? Or is it because she thinks that she's
better than me since she's going to Stanford and I'm not, thus, giving her the reason to be so
indignant with her affronts. Whatever the case may be, she's really starting to get on my
nerves. I'll have to deal with her later—at least before I take my MCAT, or else she'll stop at no
end with her insults if I perform miserably on it.
I have about four hours before my date with Emilie to prepare for my usual get-ready-
for-a-date routine, which isn't really a routine because I hardly ever go on dates. First, I pick
out my wardrobe: a Banana Republic stretch polo with matching indigo, boot-cut jeans—wait
—I've worn all this before when Emilie saw me at Auntie's church in Palo Alto, so instead, I'll
just put on a blue Salvatore Ferragamo dress shirt with matching boot-cut, beige chinos.
Second, I take an hour shower, carefully lathering, scrubbing and cleaning every crevice of my
body, like I'm at a car wash, being detailed by a lineup of illegal immigrants. I soap myself up
from head to toe, but I don't rinse right away—no need to rush. I let it all soak in, marinating
and tenderizing my body like a glazed sirloin steak ready to be grilled. After several minutes, I
rinse off all of the suds and get out to dry myself. But it doesn't end there—oh no! I get some
of my favorite organic cologne, Herban Cowboy™ Organic Cologne Dusk™, and spray it all
over my body like it's water—the scent so strong that you can taste it; that's one way to eat
organic. Afterwards, I gel my hair so stiff that a jackhammer won't be able to chisel it. I
complete my hygienic marathon by putting on my outfit, to ultimately become the superhero
known as "Ordinary Asian Guy." Last but not least, I look at a full-length mirror and picture
myself with the body of a Greek god. Actually, this isn't usually what I do, but I might as well
since I have lots of time to spare.
With more than two hours left and my routine completely done, I'm good to go! Maybe I'll get a
head start and study for my MCAT before my date. What the hell am I thinking? Why would I
want to do that? Studying for the MCAT would make me miserable, too miserable before a
date. I have to get my game face on. All this time left is a killer. Oh crap! I totally forgot to call
Gabriel. I'll have lots of time to chat with him, plus, he can tell me what to do on my date with
Emilie, since I need all the advice that I can muster.
I dial Gabriel's number on my phone and after four rings, he picks up.
“Hey loser,” Gabriel opens. Why does everyone call me that?
“Hey man. I just got back. And guess what? I have a date tonight with Emilie,” I
announce excitedly, hoping for some praise and acclamation.
“Alright! Dude, that's awesome!” Gabriel replies with the praise and acclamation I was
hoping for.
“I know, right? I can't believe it. I'm going on a date tonight with Emilie.”
“I can't believe it either,” Gabriel teases. “Maybe she's on crack.”
“Who isn't? We're in LA. I can't believe I'm going on a date tonight...with Emilie!” I
repeat.
“Yeah, I know,” Gabriel replies, “so you want me to chaperone, newbie?”
“Screw you. I think I can handle this...I hope,” I confess, not really sure if I'll screw this
up or not.
“Don't worry, bro,” Gabriel says comforting me. “Just be cool and be
yourself...wait...don't be yourself. Just be cool and you'll do fine.”
“Gee, thanks,” I reply sarcastically. “You're a big help.”
“Well if you screw this up, you can always go on a date with her little sister,” Gabriel
kids, knowing that she's only fourteen.
“How 'bout instead I chaperone the both of you, Captain Statutory?” I return jokingly.
“Just get through tonight first,” Gabriel advises, “and then we'll see. Get off the phone
with me so you can do your thing. By the way, in the event that you get lucky, which is next to
hell freezing over, leave a pack of condoms in your car and say that they're mine, so that she
doesn't think you planned it.”
“Gabriel, you're a genius! I knew there was a reason for your existence.”
“Yeah, yeah, to serve you, Johnson. Now get off the phone, good luck, behave, stay in
school, don't do drugs, and tell me all about it tomorrow because tonight, you'll be doing you-
know-what!” Gabriel hangs up the phone, finishing his statement with a bang.
I arrive at Emilie's house, which is also here in Irvine, right before five o'clock, not too early
and not late. She lives in Shady Canyon, the most affluent part of Irvine, in a commodious
two-story, French-provincial style house with a white-picket fence surrounding the capacious
yard and a black metal security gate in front of the long driveway. I pull up to the gate intercom
to press the talk button. The gate opens, without me even saying a word, and I park my car
near the front door. As I get out, I'm careful not to step on the wet grass and all the shoes and
sandals outside the doorway of her house. I press the doorbell and soon after, I can hear
rapid footsteps coming down the stairs—thump, thump, thump, thump, thump. Within mere
moments, the door opens and I see Emilie, showing her magnificent smile which pierces
through me with ineffable waves of joy and delight. I just stand there, staring at her
remarkable presence. She really is the most beautiful girl that I've ever laid my eyes on. "Hey,
gorgeous," I greet her, forthright with conviction.
"Hey yourself," Emilie cheerfully replies. "Should we go or should we just stare at each
other all day?"
"The latter definitely sounds fine."
"The latter? I don't feel like going on a date with a dork."
"Do you feel like going on a date with a future doctor?"
"Yes, Dr. Johnson," Emilie quickly answers, laughing.
"Well, let's go then. I'll write you a prescription for a good time." I really am a dork.
14
Halfway through our drive to Koreatown, which is just west of downtown LA, Emilie and I
talked about everything: family, friends, college, even the nefarious MCAT. We're both about to
take it for the first time, and we're both very nervous about it. It's good to know that I'm not the
only one with anxieties about the MCAT, after all, it's only the biggest obstacle of my life. I've
thought about the second-place option of being a lawyer, but I'm just not cut out for it. I just
can't defend people that I know that are guilty, and besides, I hate going to court. Court is like
a country club full of backstabbers, betrayers, traitors—otherwise known as politicians—and
anyway, I'm not invited; nor do I want to be. I wouldn't make it in law school; there's just no
way.
As we approach the outskirts of LA, I can see the intense barrage of graffiti on the
sides of buildings along the freeway. Some of the artwork can actually merit an exhibit at an
art gallery, unlike one particular piece of graffiti which catches my eye, "The One And Only
Joe," sprayed in pink paint across the boarded doors of an abandoned warehouse. "The One
And Only Joe"—of course I know that Joe, since he's the one and only; there can't be any
other Joe's in this world, since he's the one and only, right? I don't necessarily mind graffiti but
at least spray something clever, not something stupid. Does he really think he's "The One And
Only Joe?” I should spray "The Second And Other Joe" right next to his, except that I don't
carry a can of spray paint with me, plus, I'm on a date and graffiti's not worth my time. Idiocy
like this really irritates me to an astounding degree.
Emilie turns off the radio, which is tragic because The Velvet Underground's Sweet
Jane was playing, one of my favorite songs of all-time—the wonderful things I have to give up
for women.
"So Johnson, what do you usually like to eat?” Emilie asks, pulling a compact mirror
out of her Coach purse, probably to check her make-up.
"I usually like to eat organic stuff, but my parents always shop at Asia World Market to
buy all of our groceries. How about you?"
"I usually stick with Korean food. My parents also shop at Asia World Market to buy all
of our groceries." Asian parents really are all alike, even where they shop.
"Besides Korean food, what else do you like to eat?"
"Anything but Vietnamese food. It's so...ghetto. It's what peasants eat," Emilie stresses,
a hint of disgust in her voice.
“I see...” I pause, not saying a word after that. Oh, no—not Emilie! I thought that she
would be different from all the other girls. I can't believe she just said that. She probably
believes in the Asian Status Hierarchy, in which the Koreans are supposedly better than the
Vietnamese. The thing about Korean culture is that the people are very competitive—and
extremely superficial. Remember the advocation of double eyelid surgery for girls as well as
parentally-accepted prostitution? Well, it doesn't stop there. Koreans like to indoctrinate and
control—what a surprise—their kids at a very young age, especially when they are
impressionable babies. When a Korean baby is a year old, for instance, Koreans celebrate by
giving gold and cash—what a surprise. Moreover, Korean parents like to lay out certain
material objects on the floor to see which ones their babies will grab first, their choice
determining their future field of profession: money for finance, mobile phone for technology,
prescription drug container for medicine—or if they're not too careful: drug dealer. All jokes
aside, it's appalling that Korean parents start their method of control even before the baby can
even walk. "Start them young to get them young" should be the motto of all Korean—and
Asian—parents.
As if this isn't bad enough, Korean—and Asian—parents are willing to make an
exception to the doctor-or-lawyer requirement, so long as you make a lot of money to make
up for your errant, aberrant behavior. Sandra Oh, a Korean actress born in Canada, is one
such exception. Her parents wanted her to become a doctor and were gravely disappointed
when she aspired to become an actress. Well, guess what? Now that she's been in major
motion pictures and hit television series, her parents have retracted that disappointment and
are now basking in her fame and fortune, totally approving her choice of profession, as if
they've always known that she would be a famous actress one day. Remember, it's always
about the money so if you can't be a doctor or lawyer then you better become Bill Gates.
Last but not least, you'll find this really funny: the Koreans of Koreatown actually held a
parade after Alice Kim and Nicholas Cage, a famous actor, got married in 2004. Many
Koreans celebrated this marriage as a "win" for the burgeoning Korean cultural movement, as
if they themselves did something to help accomplish this "major feat." For crying out loud, it's
not like they cured cancer. But for Koreans, one of them getting married to a famous American
celebrity means more than curing cancer—how superficial and pretentious! Instead, why don't
they hold a parade to withdraw all the soldiers fighting in the neoconservative, undeclared Iraq
War? Instead, why don't they hold a parade for all the Americans that participated in the World
Cup? The reason is because these things do not relate to the big three—money, status, and
power—at least for them. If it doesn't affect them directly or in relation to how it affects them,
then it's not important. Care to guess what's truly important to them?
You're probably thinking, Why am I just bashing Koreans? It's not just them. The
Japanese are just as bad, working like slaves in order to show off their money, spending it
excessively like they're kings and not giving a damn about anything else. The Chinese work
like slaves, too, but are known to be cheap and will do anything—like putting melamine in milk
or lead in toys—just to save money, throwing morals and ethics out the window. Then you
have the rest of Indochina—the Vietnamese, Laotians, Cambodians, too many to list—
following the Chinese, Korean, and Japanese, striving to obtain a small piece of that greed-
filled pie. It's true that ethnic heritages like Japanese, Korean, Chinese, and Vietnamese are
different, but they are all the same when it comes to one thing: money. They all want there
kids to grow up to become doctors and lawyers; why?—money. They all want to live in the
United States of America; why?—money. Remember, they can care less about freedom,
liberty, and patriotism—that's insignificant compared to money. They would be more than
happy to live in a despotic, totalitarian society, just as long as they make lots of money.
Mommy once told me that the reason why Asians love money so much is because it
will always be there, unlike governments which fall. Does she really believe her own crap?
Has she not heard of the German hyperinflation in 1923? Or the hyperinflation of Chinese
currency during World War II and shortly thereafter with the rise of Mao's Communist Party?
Even the mighty Romans experienced a complete collapse in their fiat currency. Money will
not always be there, so I just wish she would stop making excuses and just admit that she's
obsessed with money, like so many Asians. Anyway, all cultures in Asia are different, but they
are all the same when it comes to one thing—and you know what that one thing is. And if you
still don't believe me about the Asian Status Hierarchy, then ask a Korean mother what she
thinks about her son marrying a Vietnamese girl—and vice versa—and see what kind of an
answer that you get. Then come and talk to me if you still don't believe.
I decide to take the Vermont Avenue exit, in order to escape the heavy traffic
associated with the later exits. I turn left on Western Avenue and continue on past Wilshire
Boulevard, the entire area saturated with Korean stores and restaurants, thus, we're now in
Koreatown. After driving for what seems like hours because of the traffic, Emilie points at
Koreatown Galleria, the shopping mecca of Korean glitz and glamor. In actuality, it's just a
small shopping mall with a few Korean restaurants and retail stores, not surprising that the
Koreans named it a galleria in order to make it sound grandiose and spectacular. I drive into
the parking garage and park my car on the first level, so that it's easier for me to remember.
Emilie and I walk in, observing the crowd of Korean people moving about the mall. We
coalesce into the crowd, blending in, walking and window-shopping at the same time.
"Oh, look at that dress, Johnson," Emilie directs with her finger, pointing to the white
sheath dress in the store window.
"That looks exquisite," I lie, trying to hide my disinterest. I wish I could fast forward this
date and get to the "good stuff."
"I'm going to try it on. Come on!" Emilie commands, grabbing my right hand and
dragging me into the store, with no possible escape in order. If you don't know what just
happened, I got caught in a trap. With Asian girls, you'll have to buy them what they want or
they won't give you what you want. I'm lucky that I brought Daddy's credit card, for emergency
purchases only, emergency purchases such as white sheath dresses in order to win over a
girl. I'll be unlucky with Daddy later.
Emilie asks the store manager to get the dress in different sizes, in order to try them on
and find the right one. The store manager comes back holding a mountain of dresses so high
that her face is completely hidden. She's also carrying several other items, apparently
different accessories that match the sheath dress, which precipitates a lurid, haunting fear in
me with the thought that Daddy's credit card will soon be maxed out. On the bright side, I
won't have to worry about getting into medical school since Daddy will surely kill me.
Emilie takes the dresses, and much to my excitement, tells me that she'll model each
of them, one-by-one, for my approval—and entertainment. Now we're getting to the good
stuff! She enters the fitting room, and I grab a chair to sit in, waiting for my supermodel. The
store manager comes up to me and asks me if I would like something to drink. I decline since
Emilie and I are about to go eat. The store manager then asks, "What is your nationality?" Oh
here we go again!
"I'm American, that's my nationality," I intelligently reply, knowing full well that she will
not accept my truthful answer.
"No. I mean, your nationality. Are you Korean?" she mistakenly asks again, not knowing
that I've already answered her question.
"My nationality is American." She looks at me with a condescending glare and walks
away into the back of the store. Asians asking other Asians about their ethnicity or racial
heritage—not nationality—is the same as people asking the proverbial, “What do you do?”
Asian people are sizing you up, to see if you're an ethnicity worth talking to. Apparently, the
store manager didn't like my answer and judges those that do not adhere to the sacrosanct
Asian Status Hierarchy.
After what really seems like an eternity, Emilie finally comes out, her stunning beauty
magnified by the white sheath dress. She walks down the hallway, looking like an ethereally
divine angel sent to save me.
"Well, what do you think?"
"You look amazing," I reply, "but I might look better in it." I love joking with her.
"How about we have a dress-off and find out who really looks better?" Emilie rebuts,
overturning my joke in her favor. I get up from the chair and walk over to her.
"I think you'll look much better in it," I concede, letting her win for my favor. Suddenly,
she kisses me, her soft, tender lips pressing against mine, as the bangs of her hair lightly
caresses my cheek. I eagerly yield to her, forgetting everything else in the world. “So if I say
that you look better than me in lingerie, will you try that on for me, too?" I kid, playing off her
kiss like it was an insignificant moment, though, it truly was the most significant moment of my
life.
"Haha. You're lucky you got lip action, hon. Keep pressing your luck and we'll see if you
get any more!" Her warning puts me in my place.
Emilie finishes putting on the last dress, not finding the fit copacetic. She decides not to
try on any of the matching accessories, including the white gold mariner bracelet that peaked
her interest earlier. Emilie doesn't know it, but she just saved my life, as any extravagant
purchases on Daddy's credit card would surely mean my death.
We leave the store and head upstairs to the food court, which is comprised of several
restaurants displaying a vast array of Korean food. Emilie orders for the both of us, as I
willingly put my trust in her. She decides on a simple meal consisting of a few dishes: Bulgogi,
thin slices of barbecued beef sirloin in a marinate of special sauces, spices, and other
ingredients; Kimchi, fermented cabbage with various spicy seasonings; Chapchae, stir-fried
noodles in sesame oil with sliced beef and mixed vegetables; Bibimbap, warm white rice with
an egg on top of sautéed vegetables in cooked chili pepper paste; to drink, two bottled
mineral waters—and yes, this entire meal is actually simple! I decide to hold off on the
alcohol, since Asians are known to get flushed red in the face with just a mere sip. Trust me;
it's not pretty. But then again, maybe I should order a few beers so that Emilie can get drunk,
since women are much easier when they're drunk. And when I say easier, I don't necessarily
mean sexually—or maybe I do; don't kill me.
After eating our meal, we tour the rest of Koreatown Galleria. Emilie tells me that she
wants to check out a bookstore on the upper level, next to the balustrade of the food court
balcony. I think this is a great idea, since I need to catch up on my reading. Upon entering, I
see a multifarious selection of Korean magazines, newspapers, books—both soft and
hardcover—educational toys, and puzzle games. Emilie focuses her attention on the stack of
beauty magazines so I decide to peruse the literary section on the other side of the bookstore.
A few of the books draw my attention, but I consider saving the money instead and just
checking them out at the library tomorrow. All of the sudden, I feel a tap on my left shoulder. I
turn around to see Calliope, a classmate of mine from neurobiology at UCI, smiling and
holding a pile of books. Calliope—she's named after Homer's muse—is exceedingly beautiful,
almost as beautiful as Emilie, but of course, I'm partial to my lovely date, which I need be
careful since I don't want to get in trouble for talking to another attractive girl; we all know how
jealous girls can get. I've hung out with Calliope before, since we were lab partners for many
of our school assignments, and she's the typical Asian girl: smart, studious, academically
gifted—but without any common sense! She's got book smarts but lacks street smarts; in fact,
she wouldn't even know what street she's driving on if you asked her!
I once told her a joke: "What do you call a cow with no legs?—Ground beef," and she
looked at me discombobulated, confusion completely overwhelming her. Finally, she said,
"Why would ground beef have legs? It's already ground up!" I shook my head in
disappointment—and disapproval—and explained to her that a cow with no legs would fall to
the ground, thus, it would be called ground beef, like at the grocery store. Guess what? She
still didn't get it. That's what you get with so many Asian girls—and Asians guys as well. I'm
not saying all Asians are like Calliope, but if you go ask an Asian person something unrelated
to academia—for instance, a common sense question such as "How do you weigh a golden
retriever accurately with a bathroom scale?" or "How do you tell what time it is at night without
looking at a clock or watch?"—I guarantee that you'll get a blank stare. Also, the reason that
Asians can't drive well is because it involves common sense; actual driving can't come from a
textbook. Book Smarts:Asians::Street Smarts:Not Asians.
I'll elaborate a little bit more on Asian girls and their lack of street smarts and common
sense. I was at a restaurant a few years ago with a group of Asian friends: guys and girls.
After we finished eating, we went outside and the girls suddenly started yelling and
screaming, hysterical beyond belief. Of course, the guys are trying to figure out what exactly
was the problem. The girls pointed fiercely at the ground, at a little caterpillar crawling on the
pavement. I stared at the girls—with a "What the hell?" look on my face—and bent down to
gently pick up the caterpillar and put it in the grass just a few inches away. Apparently, all that
studying didn't teach them how to simply pick up an innocuous, little caterpillar.
Calliope puts her pile of books down and steps over to give me a light hug. I glance
over to the magazine section to make sure Emilie is still there—luckily I see her! As I'm
hugging Calliope, I'm thinking about how younger Asians don't hug their parents, but they hug
each other all the time; it's quite obvious that we need love and affection just like every other
human being—since we're not robots—and if we can't get it from our parents, we'll get it
elsewhere.
"How've you been, Calliope?"
"I'm doing fine. How about you?"
"I'm doing good. Do you need a strong, bodybuilder like myself to carry those books for
you?" I jokingly brag.
"Haha. No, I'm okay. Thanks for asking. So what are you doing here?" Calliope asks,
with an inquisitive look on her face.
"I'm here on a date with that girl right there," I say, pointing my finger directly at Emilie.
"You can tell how our date's going so far judging by the fact that we've ended up inside a
thrilling and exciting, action-packed bookstore," I continue joking.
"I'm sure it can't be going that bad," Calliope consoles, needlessly of course.
"Oh, I was just kidding. I'm really having a good time."
"But you just said that your date isn't going so well since you're at a bookstore,"
Calliope alludes, with a perplexed and bemused look on her face.
"I...never mind. Hey, I got to get going. I'll see you in class tomorrow."
"Sure, I'll see you tomorrow. Later." Do you see what I mean? She's an Asian ditz, with
black hair instead of blonde. So there you go, guys: if you want a non-blonde ditz, there's
plenty with no common sense!
Since we're on the subject of Asians lacking common sense, I'll illustrate the reasons
as to why, with an example alluding back to Yao Ming. Yao Ming, as you know, is a NBA
basketball player, considered one of China's greatest basketball centers of all-time and
proclaimed as a cultural hero and icon, his superstardom burgeoning beyond the Asian
stratosphere. Despite his success as a dominating center in the CBA, Chinese Basketball
Association, he does not even come close to that status as a NBA basketball player. Many
people use the excuse that he's new in the league and that he's transitioning to the American
style of basketball. Well, it's been seven years and that's not exactly new in the league
anymore. Seven years is enough time to transition so if he can't do it by now, he'll never be
able to do it. The truth as to why Yao Ming is a star player in China and a mediocre player in
the NBA is simply because Chinese basketball players are not accustomed to the physical,
aggressive style of American basketball—even though Yao Ming is 7'6", he still gets pushed
around! Bluntly put, Asians are too timid and feeble, thus, lacking backbone.
And it's not just with sports; it's with everything. Asians lack backbone because of the
extremely intensive indoctrination and conditioning instilled in them to follow orders and to
serve, which causes them not to think for themselves and not to stand up for themselves; this
is critically important to understanding why Asians are the way they are and don't change.
This indoctrination and conditioning is a result of the overly extensive use of the power of
control—Asian Pride Theorem: Number 3. Remember how it all starts with just a grain of rice?
—"Start them young to get them young."
Throughout the thousands of years of Asian dynasties, all the emperors, kings, and
presidents have ruled with an iron fist and formidable will, controlling every aspect of the lives
of Asians. Because of the long duration and large-scale domination, it's only natural that
Asians continue living lives of subservience and docility. For example, why is there such a
huge rich-poor gap in China—1% controls 99%—when they are supposedly communist,
meaning everyone is equal in sharing the ownership of wealth and goods? This is the same
with North Korea. Asian people can't stand up for themselves, instead, letting themselves get
pushed around by those “above.” They only know how to serve and to follow orders, thus,
stifling their creativity and mental capabilities, resulting in the lack of intuition and preventing
the utilization of common sense. That's why Asians like the Japanese generally improve
technology versus invent, just follow what's already done so that there's no need for creativity
and intuition to come up with something new. That's why Asians are usually quiet; they don't
speak up in meetings or in class, remaining timid and feeble so as not to cause trouble. That's
why Asians save face, trying to maintain a good image, yet not knowing that this is ultimately
a form of weakness and lack of backbone. Asians are smart when it comes to high academia
and making money, but when it comes down to the heart of it all, they fail at Life 101.
I tiptoe over to Emilie and tap her lightly on her right shoulder then move quickly to her
left. She turns to her left immediately and asks, "What? Are you in first grade?"
"No, I'm in college," I respond, with a smart-ass tone.
"Alright, smart-ass, you wanna go?"
"Yeah, you want to go see a movie?"
"Cool, I'll make sure to pick a chick flick so that you can suffer through it."
"I won't be suffering because I'll be making out with someone very special."
"Good luck with that because I won't be." Emilie teases, pushing me back, then walking
out of the bookstore while waving her finger to beckon me to follow. In the words of the well-
renown Velvet Underground's Lou Reed: “She's a femme fatale.”
Upon leaving the Koreatown Galleria, Emilie receives a call on her mobile phone,
which is in her purse, and as she hastily tries to take it out, accidentally drops it onto the
concrete pavement of the parking lot. Luckily, the phone is still intact, surviving the long fall,
but unluckily, the screen is completely blank and shining bright like a torch flashlight, which is
kind of cool—but not for Emilie. Mobile phones are very important to Korean—or rather all—
girls so we decide to go to the nearest mobile phone retail store to purchase a new one as a
replacement. When I purchased my mobile phone last year, it took me about two minutes to
decide, but it's taking Emilie about two hours to pick one, since she's meticulously matching
each phone with her khaki-brown Coach purse, determining the right choice in color. This
sucks because we won't have time to watch a movie, thus, I won't be making out with her.
This kind of crap only happens to me.
After Emilie finally picks out the mobile phone that perfectly matches the color of her
expensive purse, she decides to make the purchase, which I offer to pay without hesitation,
but she explains to me that the broken phone is insured by her mobile phone carrier so she
gets a new one at no cost. I really want to pay, because I really want to let her know that I
care about her. But I have to tell you that with Asians, as long as they offer to pay, then that's
all that matters, even though they really want other people to pay instead of them—like the
obligatory donation box at a funeral or the obligatory fee for a wedding. Asians are known for
playing the “offering game.” You'll see Asians at a restaurant, for instance, fighting over the
bill—literally—and offering to pay, even if they don't really want to, because it makes them
look good, promoting an attractive status for themselves, Asian Pride Theorem: Number 2.
And since offering to pay is free, Asians are more than happy to participate, hoping that the
other party really pays. For Asians, it's always about the money; for Johnson, it's always about
the truth.
15
Emilie and I both decide that it's getting late—actually only she decided since I wouldn't mind
spending the entire night being with her—so I drive out of Koreatown and back onto the 101,
heading south. Even at ten o'clock, there's heavy traffic all along the freeway, a constant
battle of changing lanes and avoiding accidents with the overwhelming number of cars going
bumper-to-bumper. I know I keep bitching about the traffic in LA, but it's seriously ridiculous,
seeing as how I'll be stuck here all night. I'm lucky that I told my parents that I'll be spending
the night at Gabriel's, so that we can both study for the MCAT together, which fortuitously,
we'll be taking next week—well maybe not fortuitously. My parents would have gone off on me
if they knew that I was on a date, but what do I really have to lose? They already control
everything that I do, everything that I wear, everywhere that I go. What else can they possibly
do? I guess that if they ever find out that I'm on a date with Emilie, then they'll have the
feather duster ready to go, which is no big deal because my ass is immune to it by now.
Emilie turns off the radio for the second time, nothing good playing on any of the
stations thankfully. “So Johnson, did you have fun tonight?” Emilie inquires, smiling deeply,
waiting for my answer.
“You trying on those dresses for me is enough fun for a lifetime,” I honestly tell her.
“But of course, you would've had more fun if I tried on lingerie, right?” Emilie stresses,
beating me to the punch.
“You are wise beyond your years, my dear,” I quickly profess, “and definitely more
beautiful beyond your years.”
“The last part doesn't make any sense but I'll take that as a compliment,” Emilie says,
giving me a puzzled, yet amiable look. We both laugh as I finally get into the right lane so that
I can take interstate 5 and get off the dreadful 101.
If there is a god of traffic, then he—or she, or it—must be in a good mood, because the
5 is wide open and clear for driving. For some odd reason, I don't see a single car on the
road, other than mine of course, and I've been driving for nearly fifteen minutes. This is a
rarity here in Southern California so I definitely won't take it for granted, not knowing if I'll ever
have a chance like this again. I'm very appreciative of the finer things in life such as no traffic.
In a record time of only thirty-five minutes, I make it to Emilie's house, driving the entire
way without even speeding. Maybe I should be a professional race car driver instead of being
a doctor; my parents will be happy to know that they make more money anyway. Emilie tells
me the gate code as I pull up to the telecom. The gate opens and I slowly enter the driveway,
parking the car near the front door. With no rush to leave, Emilie and I just sit there and the
next thing we know, the both of us start chatting about which medical schools we plan to apply
to. Her eyes are set on Stanford while my eyes are set on...the MCAT. I honestly don't care
about which medical school that I get into since I'm only going because my parents are
wanting me to—forcing me to, I mean. So as long as I get into medical school, then I'll be fine
and hopefully my parents will finally be proud of me.
“I'm going to be studying all day and night this entire week for the MCAT so I haven't
even started looking at medical schools,” I tell Emilie.
“But you must have some idea,” Emilie insists, not believing my answer.
“If I had a choice, it would be Stanford just because you're going.”
“That's sweet, Johnson. But you really need to focus on your future. What will your
parents think?”
“Honestly? I don't really care anymore. Ever since I can remember, they've been
forcing me to get good grades, get a high SAT score, go to UCI and now, medical school. I
never get to make any of the decisions and it's my life! I'm really sick of all this pressure and
overachieving. Aren't you?” I ask, hoping that she'll be honest.
“Johnson. You're not the only one that feels this way. I'm sick of it too but what can you
do? I just want my parents to be proud of me.”
“I do too. That's why I'm going to medical school to become a doctor and forgetting my
dream of becoming a writer. I want them to be proud of me but sometimes, it's just too
much...it's just...too much—” I start crying uncontrollably. I can't help it. All my feelings of
anger and frustration have been bottled up for far too long and now that I'm finally able to
speak to someone about this, I let it all out, without fear or hesitation. I just hope I don't scare
the hell out of Emilie, since guys that cry don't exactly look cool.
Emilie unbuckles her seat belt and hugs me, holding me as I weep. I feel like such a
wuss, crying to a girl but sometimes, things are so bad that you just can't help it. “I know what
you're going through, Johnson. If it makes you feel any better, I cried last week when my mom
told me that I would end up being a prostitute if I didn't get into medical school.”
“She really said that to you?” I ask shockingly. Asian parents love to use
fearmongering tactics, like Emilie's mom, even though they really don't work and in the end,
ultimately hurt everyone involved.
“Yeah. Can you believe it? My own mom saying stuff like that. The things that they'll
say just to get you to listen to them. It's not like I wasn't already planning to go to medical
school. She just wanted to reinforce the idea, so that there's no chance of me changing my
mind. But I don't let her get to me. I know she means well. And we both know that our parents
care about us, but they just...have the worst way of showing it. So don't worry, once we
graduate, we'll be off somewhere else and we can start living our own lives.”
“You're right, Emilie. I'm sorry. You must think I'm such a pussy for crying about this.”
“Haha. Not at all. I think you're very sweet. In fact, you want to know something? I've
always had a crush on you, even all the way back in middle school. I've always known that
there's something about you that makes you different from all the other Asian guys. Don't get
mad but just like you crying right now. I find it honest and refreshing, believe it or not. Other
Asian guys wouldn't have the courage to cry, not even the courage to share their feelings.”
“I don't know what to say.” I wipe away my tears and put the biggest smile on my face.
“You don't need to say anything. I think tonight's been pretty eventful for the both of us.
Let's just go inside and get you cleaned up.”
Emilie opens the door to get out of the car and then I follow, getting out from my side.
The only light on is the front porch light, since her parents are out of town and her little sister
is spending the night at a friend's house. Emilie and I at her home alone—what can two
young, vibrant and energetic adults possibly do?
As I enter her house—my shoes already off of course—I can see that the inside looks
just like Auntie and Oldest Auntie's, traditional and passé with antiquated Oriental furniture,
lanterns hanging from the ceiling, red New Year couplets covering the walls below and wall
scrolls that are almost identical in appearance—this interior decorator must be making a
fortune!
I sit down on the living room couch and grab a couple of tissues from the box of
Kleenex on the glass coffee table. I notice a picture of her family in a large, gold garland
picture frame, right next to the box of Kleenex. I bend over to take a closer look at the picture.
Emilie and her sister are standing in front of their parents next to a tall willow tree at Heritage
Park in Irvine. It's amazing that my own family took a picture just like this at Heritage Park,
when Jordan and I were kids. In fact, we were standing in the exact same spot—déjà vu! I
think all of us have been living in Irvine way too long, even taking pictures at the same place,
in the same spot.
Now that I think about it, Emilie's family is just like mine—except that I'm not Emilie and
I'm a dude. But we're alike in that we both grew up with the same austere lifestyle, our parents
controlling what we do, where we go, what we become—even what we think. It doesn't really
matter if you're Korean, Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese—we are all cognizant of this austere
programming.
Emilie comes back from the kitchen with two glasses of water, two for me, none for her
—I'm only joking of course. She sits down right next to me, which instantly makes me forget
about everything else in the world; she has a habit of doing this.
“Is this tap water?” I ask, not trying to be picky.
“Yeah. Do you want something else?” Emilie politely asks, being very hospitable.
“Oh no, it's okay. I just...you drink tap water?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Do you know that they put a shitload of chemicals in it? From chlorine, which was
invented as a chemical warfare agent during World World I, to lead, arsenic, and fluoride. It's
really bad for you.”
“But doesn't fluoride prevent tooth decay?” Emilie inquires.
“Well, there's a difference between natural fluoride and the sodium fluoride that
municipal water treatment centers use. Natural fluoride, aka calcium fluoride, occurs naturally
of course, but sodium fluoride is actually declared as toxic and hazardous waste by the EPA,
Environmental Protection Agency. In fact, the Nazis put sodium fluoride in the water to
sterilize Jewish prisoners and make them docile. Not to mention the fact that it's the key
ingredient in sarin nerve gas and rat poison. Anyway, these municipal water treatment centers
purchase sodium fluoride as waste from industries and then pumps it into the water supply.”
“Are you serious? Why doesn't anybody stop them?” Emilie asks, expressing
solicitude.
“Are you serious? Why doesn't anybody do anything anymore? Congress passed the
Patriot Act, which violates every single constitutional amendment but no one does anything
about it. George W. Bush and John Kerry ran against each other for President in 2004, yet
they're both cousins, but no one does anything about it. Did you know that John McCain was
born in Panama but still became the Republican frontrunner for President? He was born on a
military base but even the U.S. DEPARTMENT OF STATE declares that that's not sovereign
U.S. territory, so therefore, he's ineligible but no one does anything about it. And with Dick
Cheney, the Vice President from Texas, selected by George W. Bush also from Texas, even
th
though the 12 Amendment clearly states that the President and Vice President cannot be
elected from the same state. Well, Dick Cheney has a Texas driver's license, filed his taxes
from Texas, owns property in Texas and was even the President of Halliburton, in Houston,
Texas. So guess what he did? He changed his residency right after he was selected as the
V.P. but no one does anything about it.”
“Check out the big brains on Johnson! How do you know so much?”
“I just read and do research. But not the crap that they teach you in school. For
example, did you know that Native Americans were made slaves by early Anglo-Americans?
You won't find that in your history books because they want you to think that Americans have
always treated them fairly, which is totally untrue. Also with Thankstaking, which most people
believe involves the Mayflower and Plymouth Rock, but actually began as a holiday to
celebrate and offer thanks-giving to god for the ambush and massacre of over 700 Native
Americans, in order to exterminate non-Christians. Ask any Native American why they don't
celebrate Thanksgiving—we are the only ones that do. Anyway, nobody does anything
anymore because nobody cares anymore, like with Asians. Don't take this the wrong way but
Asians only care about something in relation to how it affects them. They only care about their
self-interest so if it doesn't involve money, status, or power, then it doesn't matter.”
“Wow. You pretty much nailed it. You're right. I'm guilty of that too. But you can't blame
Asians, Johnson. It's society.”
“Well, last I checked, society doesn't talk, doesn't walk, doesn't have arms or legs. 'It's
society' is just an excuse that people use because they don't want to take responsibility for
their own actions. Remember the two kids that burned down their parents' trailer and the
entire trailer park, because they learned it from watching Beavis and Butthead? Then the
parents sued MTV, blaming them for the entire incident. Well, first of all, where were they?
Why were two kids home alone? And couldn't they put a lock on the cable box? They didn't
want to admit that they failed as parents so they blame someone else, since they can't take
responsibility for their own faults. Anyway, this is what typical Americans do—blame society or
blame someone else but never blame themselves because it can never be their fault!” I
exclaim lividly, getting all fired up.
“Professor Johnson, I bet you can go on all night,” Emilie says gently, moving in closer.
I think it's time for me to shut up now.
Seizing the moment, I lift my right hand to her face, running my index finger across her
left cheek and down softly to her chin, curling my fingers lightly at the tip. I lean in, caressing
the lower part of her chin then tilting it up towards me. My lips meet her lips, covering both our
mouths with the intensity of passion and lust. Our kiss, even more potent now than at the
Koreatown Galleria, shoots a fury of unfurling fire throughout my entire body, consuming me
whole. My tongue eventually locks with her's, no key able to undo the embrace, nothing able
to sever our unity.
I ease myself on top of her, lifting my right leg as I move sideways and accidentally
kicking the box of tissues and the picture frame, both falling to the floor. We ignore the minor
mishap and my hands slide down to her hips, pulling her closer to me. I can feel her body
shaking, throbbing as I tighten my grip on her delicate hips, my breathing long and deep as I
take in her wonderful scent.
Emilie grabs me by the gape of my neck, tenderly kissing and licking the tips of my ear,
which sends electricity and frenetic energy down to my pulsating heart. (I don't know if I can
take any more of this!) I cup her right breast with my hand, holding it snugly and letting it rest
in my palm, then guiding my other hand up on her shoulder to slide down the strap of her bra,
setting it free, setting her free.
Emilie stiffens her body as she gets up, putting a stop to our after-school activity. “Hey
let's not do this—“
“Yeah I know,” I interrupt, “it's only been our first date so we should take things slow
and not go so fast.”
“No. I mean, let's not do this—here on the couch. Let's go upstairs,” Emilie instructs,
her smile just like heaven. I'm going to get lucky!
She wraps her hand around mine and leads me upstairs to her room. She turns on the
light and I see numerous MCAT preparation books all over the floor and on her bed as well—
what a turn off! She hurriedly knocks them off her bed and unto the floor with the rest of them
—where they truly belong—and turns on the desk lamp with the press of a button. She then
flips off the light switch and advances towards me in the still, now dimly-lit room—what a turn
on! I touch her fabulous face with fondness and gaze into her magnificent eyes, which gleams
of chestnut. Emilie then pushes me down to the bed and says “Stay,” like I'm a dog, which I'm
more than willing to be. She walks into the bathroom, presumably to freshen up to get ready
for you-know-what and closes the door. I just now realize that my condoms are in the car! I
quickly run down the stairs and out the front door, half-naked and shoeless. Grabbing the
condoms from the glove compartment, I rush back into the house and upstairs into Emilie's
room. Upon entering, I see her wearing an exquisite red satin, strapless corset with matching
lace thong panty and fishnet stockings—I'm a deer caught in the headlights; in the word of the
judicious Keanu Reeves: “Woah!”
Emilie breathes a sign of relief. “For a moment there, I thought you got cold feet and
decided to run off!”
I move in towards her and draw her against my body. “I knew this night would end with
you in lingerie.” I run my fingers through her hair and lift my other hand to show her the pack
of condoms.
“You're wrong,” Emilie says, surprising the hell out of me.
“Wrong? Wrong about what?”
“Wrong that it's going to end with me in lingerie,” Emilie declares boldly, untying the
front strings of her corset.
“Woah!”
16
Today is the greatest day in the history of the world! It's good to be alive! It's good to be me!
When people say, “Stop and smell the roses,” I now know what they mean, because I'm
stopping at every flower that I see, taking in all the sweet aromas as I walk over to Gabriel's
house. I don't even care that I'm suppose to drive just because I'm from Irvine. I feel like
taking a walk and enjoying the fresh, open air because I got laid last night! Today is the
greatest day in the history of the world!
I turn around the corner to see Gabriel sitting outside on a bench in his front patio, his
feet resting on a pile of MCAT preparation books—the best footrest money can buy! “Hey,
loser!” I yell from a distance.
“Hey, winner,” Gabriel yells back, his clairvoyance impressing me. “I can see you
dancing and prancing so I know something good happened between you and Emilie last
night.”
“I hit it!” I reply, as Gabriel's next door neighbor looks at us, obviously overhearing our
loud conversation.
“So how was it?” Gabriel asks, with a smile bigger than a birthday girl given her first
pony.
“Let's just say she won't be walking for a while,” I brag with intrepid confidence.
“You dog!” Gabriel yells again, his neighbor drawing in closer to our conversation.
“Actually she was the dog, 'cause I canine-d her from—“
“Let's get out of here,” Gabriel interrupts and quietly whispers, “since my neighbor is a
nosy gossipmonger.” We get into his mom's car (Gabriel completely wrecked his car two days
ago from racing—big surprise) which is also a BMW 550i, completely shocking that Asians
drive luxury cars—I love sarcasm.
Gabriel drives us to the Barnes and Noble bookstore right off interstate 5, so that we
can study—diligently, of course—for the MCAT. Gabriel loves coming here because there's a
Starbucks inside. Asians in Irvine and the rest of Orange County love to congregate at Barnes
and Noble and Borders, since they can study and get high on caffeine, America's favorite
legal drug. Whenever Gabriel drinks just two cups of coffee, he acts like a monkey on crack—
and on coke mixed with crystal meth and while we're at it, throw in a bottle of Prozac. That's
why I have to limit his caffeine intake, just like what a bartender does for alcoholics drinking
beer. Maybe it's not such a good idea to come here after all; I wouldn't want Gabriel starting a
Starbucks bar fight with the other coffeeholics. Anyway, we need to get studying or else we'll
both do miserably on the MCAT.
After only about an hour and my brain fried like an egg, I decide to quit studying, as I
get up to take a walk around the bookstore. The good thing about studying here is the myriad
of magazines—including adult ones—that I can read whenever boredom strikes me at its
hardest—or whenever studying for the MCAT strikes me at its hardest.
I decide to skip the magazines altogether and go over to the graphic novels section. I
love reading the latest collections of DC Vertigo and enjoy checking for new works by Neil
Gaiman and Mike Carey. While I'm going through each shelf of books, I see an Asian kid
about a few feet below from me sitting on the floor, with piles of comic books next to him.
There are also two plastic cups with straws—probably iced mocha judging from all that
whipped cream—next to him as well. He reminds me of a little version of Gabriel, a
precocious young lad getting all his daily vitamins and minerals from highly caffeinated, highly
sugary beverages. Maybe I should introduce the two so that they can be brothers—
hyperactive brothers addicted to legal drugs.
I finish looking through all of the shelves for new graphic novels and I see the kid, from
the corner of my eye, getting up and taking off, leaving the pile of comic books and two empty
Starbucks cups—what a lazy little shit! That's the fourth—no, thousandth—time I've seen that,
spoiled Asian kids coming in here and leaving their crap for someone else to clean, like
they're at home and their mommies look after them. Asians take everything for granted
because they figure that they'll become doctors or lawyers one day, with people having to
serve them, when in actuality, they're the servants—to their parents when they retire. I know
that picking up after yourself isn't an Asian thing, but you'd be surprised at how many Asian
people don't do it.
I walk back to the table to tell Gabriel about the little bastard, and he immediately
waves me over to show me a very detailed—and very good—drawing of a giant penis with
testicles, obviously not his own because Asians have small...anyway, I'm pretty sure his
drawing won't be covered on the MCAT.
“Gabriel, you're supposed to be studying, not drawing dildos,” I scold, hoping that he'll
grow up, at least before next week's exam.
“First of all, it's a cock—with balls. Second of all, why are you walking around then
instead of studying?”
“Because I'm done studying,” I arrogantly reply.
“Done? We've only been here for an hour. There's no way that you're done.”
“I studied before today unlike you, nimrod.”
“I'll show you a rod,” Gabriel smirks, pointing at his obscenely distasteful drawing.
“Well, if you do bad on the MCAT, you won't have a rod anymore because your parents
will chop it off.”
“You know why I'm not laughing?” Gabriel asks moronically. He points his left index
finger at me, holding a stern look in his eyes and exclaims, “Because you're right.”
“And if I do bad, my parents will chop off my rod—and balls, so I'm in the same shitty
boat as you are. That's why we have to study or else we're screwed.”
“Alright, alright. Don't get your panties in a bunch.”
“I got panties in a bunch last night at Emilie's,” I say boastfully.
“Har-har. Well, don't worry about the MCAT. Because if you fail, you can always be a
comedian,” Gabriel advises sarcastically.
“Gabriel, why do people make such a big deal about scores?” I find myself changing
the subject. “I mean, seriously. Getting straight A's, high test scores—it's not like they ask you
for your SAT score when you check in a hotel or board a plane. Everyone makes such a big
deal about scores but in the real world, no one gives a shit.”
“Hey, bro. You're preaching to the choir. For most Asians, school is life and life is
school. For us Japanese, work is life and life is work. We excel in the classroom and in the
office but in the real world, we are outcasts. We are minorities, not just because of the yellow
color of our skin, but because of our beliefs and our way of life. We're so focused on money,
status, and power that we don't care about anything else. That's why no one cares about us,”
Gabriel finishes saying.
“Your philosophy ranks up there with Kant and Rousseau,” I snicker, half-lie and half-
true.
“You know that I'm right about the money, status, and power obsession,” Gabriel
persists, advocating his tenets.
“Of course, you're right. Actually, I'm right since I'm the one who came up with the
Asian Pride Theorems, remember?”
“Yes, Professor Small Johnson.”
“Yeah, that's really original, GAYbriel.”
“Your mom's original.”
“You've used that before, you unoriginal prick.”
“I'll show you a prick!” Gabriel points at his drawing yet again.
“You've used that before, too!”
“I've used your mom before too.” Gabriel won't be stopping anytime soon. We've been
here for only an hour, studying for the damn MCAT and neither of us has accomplished
anything. We're so screwed.
17
Today's the big day. Today will make or break me—same with Gabriel, Emilie and every other
Asian person, at least the ones taking the MCAT, which is probably all the Asians in Irvine.
Today is D-Day for Asians.
I arrive at the MCAT testing center about an hour early, so that I can get ready without
any complications, since my life is fraught with complications. This place looks just like a
prison facility, with plain white walls and welded wire mesh panels covering the windows. I bet
this place is just as secure, as two guards walk from room to room—what I wouldn't give to
see the look on Gabriel's face when he gets here; I'm sure that he'll be reminiscing about the
wonderful week that he spent in jail.
What most people don't know is that taking the MCAT is a day-long marathon. The
entire exam is nearly six grueling hours—and you thought the SAT was bad! I'll explain the
MCAT exam to you succinctly, which I'm sure will still bore you to the point of mental anguish
and suffering, but too bad because I've also suffered, being Asian my entire life. The MCAT is
comprised of a total of four sections, in the respective testing order: physical sciences, verbal
reasoning, writing sample, and biological sciences. The physical sciences section
concentrates on physics and physics-related chemistry. The verbal reasoning section
concentrates on reading comprehension but with a focus on social sciences, humanities, and
natural sciences—oh joy! Next is the writing sample, which presents two essay topics for
writing. Last and definitely not least, is the biological sciences section, which concentrates on
basic biology and biochemistry, the most important part of the entire exam. I can't think of
anything better to do with my six hours than to take the MCAT—I love sarcasm.
Also, just to let you know, a perfect score on the MCAT is 45 with T, 15 for each section
and T for the writing sample, using a grading scale of J – T, with J being the lowest and T
being the highest. I have to get at least a 30 with P to be considered by most medical schools.
Aside from that one day at Barnes and Noble with Gabriel, I've been studying my ass
off, locking myself in my room and avoiding all the regular distractions like television, radio,
even my mobile phone. I called Emilie only once this entire week, since she's also studying
her ass off. I just now realize that Asians have a compulsive fixation with asses: spanking
asses and studying their asses off. Maybe I should make a theorem about this.
I walk into the testing room and sit at the computer assigned to me. I'm allowed a
pencil with scratch paper. I've never been to jail but this really feels like it—no talking, no
friends and locked inside a room (on the bright side, at least no parents, too.) Many experts
suggest taking exams in a healthy test-taking environment that is conducive for maximum
score efficiency and results. I don't think they consider jail a really good environment.
It's almost time to take the MCAT. My heart is pounding from nervousness and anxiety,
my hands shaking and legs gyrating. I have to suffer through this because those bastards
wouldn't let me bring in my stress ball! I keep telling myself that everything is okay, that
everything will be fine, that I'll ace this exam just like the others. I even remember to recite the
mantras of good test-taking: utilize time management, pace yourself, maintain a good attitude
and keep a sharp mental awareness. I am a MCAT machine, ready to go! But I would much
rather be a MCAT machine with the answers, ready to go!
To my left, I see a very attractive Asian girl, probably Vietnamese—and I could be
wrong since we all look alike—sitting at her computer, ready to take the test as well. She is
wearing a very seductive outfit: a sexy black strapless top, tight hip-hugging black miniskirt,
and black stiletto high heels—whoa! It's bad enough that I'm nervous, but now I have this new
distraction that I definitely don't need. I find it rather inept that a girl would get all dressed up
just to take the MCAT—not that I'm complaining of course.
Someone once asked me why Asian girls get all dressed up to go to class and I told
him that it's actually quite normal. The main reason, obviously, is to get attention, hopefully
attracting a male with a strong moral character and benevolent disposition—yeah right! They
are hoping to land a rich guy to pay for all their stupid crap. The other reason Asian girls dress
up, which most people don't know, is that most of them live a sheltered, austere life. Asian
parents, particularly the father, are very strict and oppressively dictate what they do, what they
wear, where they go—big surprise. So they get dressed up to go to class because they can't
get dressed up to go anywhere else. Of course, this isn't the case with every Asian girl but
there are a hell of a lot that get dressed up just to go to class at UCI—not that I'm complaining
of course.
The instructor comes into the room and notifies us that we are about to begin the
MCAT. He reads aloud each of the instructions, as if he's a flight attendant heralding the usual
pre-flight safety speech. My hands are still shaking and my legs are still gyrating, but I think I'll
be fine once I start taking the exam. After all, what do I have to lose?—everything, of course.
The instructor announces that we are to start now. I click my mouse to see my first
question:
I'm so screwed.
18
“So how'd you do?” Gabriel asks, anxiously waiting for my answer.
“Uh...” I drone sullenly.
“Johnson, how'd you do?” Gabriel repeats, again waiting for my answer.
“Uh...” I drone again sullenly.
“Here, drink this,” Gabriel instructs, giving me a bottle of beer in order to comfort me.
We're sitting here drinking at the bar in Gabriel's favorite restaurant, Che, named after
Che Guevara, an Argentine Marxist revolutionary leader, also a guerrilla warfare commander,
aka terroristic mass murderer. I see so many people wearing Che shirts, like they're so cool,
but they don't realize that Che murdered and promoted the execution of many innocent
people, people who did not follow him. People need to read their history but in order to do so,
they must first learn what to read. Anyway, I'm too angry to talk about this since I just bombed
the MCAT. It's surprising to me that Gabriel is taking things lightly, since he also bombed it.
Sometimes, you just know even before finishing a test that you bombed the hell out of it.
“I'm going to need a lot more than just one beer,” I fuss at Gabriel.
“I'm way ahead of you,” Gabriel shoots back, an urgent smile on his face. “I just
ordered six more.”
“I'm going to need a lot more than just six beers,” I fuss again.
“Look, drinking away your sorrows won't get you a high MCAT score,” Gabriel
reasons, trying to make me feel better, even though he's failing.
I lift my head with a stern look in my eyes, as I point to Gabriel with my right index
finger and say to him, "You're right."
“I know I'm right. I'm always right,” Gabriel arrogantly confesses. “Well, except for the
MCAT. I didn't get too many right on that.”
“What are we going to do?” I ask Gabriel.
“What can we do except take it again?”
“But we both studied our asses off. Well, at least I did. There's no way we're going to
do well the second time. Plus we'll just lose face by taking it again.”
“Well, let's not worry just yet. I mean, we still have to wait about a month for the results,
right? Who knows, we may be totally wrong. We might even get a 45T!”
“I know you're an optimist, Gabriel, but you're also an idiot. I'll be lucky to even get a
25J. I studied so hard...for nothing.”
“Look, not everyone's cut out for medical school. You can always go take the LSAT
and get into law school.”
“You know how I hate court. You do, too, Mr. I-Spent-A-Week-In-OC-Jail. There's no
way either of us are going to law school.”
“Then what other options do you suggest, Johnson?”
“Well, I would suggest engineering but it's too freaking late for that. Plus, my parents
rd
would literally kill me for taking the 3 place option. Your parents will kill you too,” I remind
Gabriel.
“Then I guess we'll have no choice but to wait until we get our results,” Gabriel
concludes, wanting to change the subject.
“Dude, listen. If we get below a 25, the repercussions are extremely serious. My
parents are going to go ape shit and your's will too.”
“I know, Johnson. But don't worry about a thing; everything will be fine. And again, we
have to wait until we get our results. So let's just chill out and relax.” Gabriel's right; he's
th
always right, except for the time that he told me that Jane Tanenbaum liked me in 4 grade—
lie; and the time that he told me that girls had a vagina and a penis, when we were in middle
school—lie; and the time that he told me that Stanford University will accept anyone as long
as they're Asian, to fulfill a minority quota—lie. Now that I think about it, he's rarely right. He
lies a lot. I just hope he's not lying about how “everything will be fine” once we get our MCAT
scores.
After about an hour and about a hundred beers in our stomachs, we both continue
sitting there, sobering up and thinking about how we'll tell our parents the bad news. I like
Gabriel's approach: lie. I think I'll do that because I can stall my parents until I decide whether
or not to take the MCAT a second time. Then again, they'll ask for the results of the first one,
which will be in about a month. I think I'll just tell them that I did fine, since that'll buy me some
more time to come up with a better excuse, when they do indeed find out that I bombed it.
I arrive at my house late in the night. To my surprise, I don't see Mommy or Daddy—not
even Jordan. I walk upstairs to the game room to watch TV and suddenly, I hear
“Congratulations!” All three of them are standing there, next to a celebration cake on the
circular game room table. I can't believe that they're doing this for me!
“Dr. Johnson,” my parents both say, patting me on the back, the most affection that I've
ever received from them. “So how the MCAT?” Daddy asks first, Mommy coming in a close
second.
“I think I did well,” I lie, rapidly chewing my gum in order to neutralize my beer breath.
“You think or you know?” Daddy asks, almost turning his smile into a scoff.
“What I mean is that I know I did well. I'm just saying 'I think' because I won't know the
results for month,” I lie again, better than any politician on Capitol Hill.
“Okay. Remember, you need make us proud,” Daddy exclaims, all my life reiterating
that same proverb over and over again.
“Yes, Daddy,” I acquiesce.
“So you do good on MCAT?” Mommy asks, as if she hasn't been paying attention.
“Mommy, I'm sure I did very well but I still have to wait a month for my score.”
“That means your date of execution will be in a month,” Jordan insults, like always.
“Har, har. That means your date of ass-whooping will be in a month after I get my
awesome test results,” I counter back.
“You two stop,” Daddy demands, while pointing at me and not at Jordan.
“Yes, Daddy,” I acquiesce again. “Please don't worry. I'll get into medical school just
like you want.”
“It's not we want,” Mommy interjects, “because it about your future. You must prepare
your future.” Like I haven't heard this before. My future? My future is suppose to be me as a
writer, not doctor. They won't admit that it's their future, since I'm their future retirement fund.
“Yes, Mommy,” I acquiesce to the other parental unit.
“You need to listen to your little sister and stop being a loser,” Jordan adds officiously,
butting in by throwing another insult. I stick out my tongue at her, like a spoiled, callow toddler.
I start to raise my middle finger at her as well when Mommy tells me to come over and cut the
celebration cake. Damn the cake looks good: tall and dense with fluffy white frosting all over,
toasted almond flakes along the sides, an assortment of fruit at the top in cascading layers—
sliced peaches, kiwis, strawberries—and written in royal blue icing: “Dr. Johnson,” next to a
cute, little toy stethoscope and head mirror. This cake sure as hell ain't organic!
I cut the cake into several pieces, giving the biggest slices to Mommy and Daddy. I give
Jordan the smallest, and she immediately grabs the knife to cut an even bigger slice for
herself. I decide to eat a small slice, since I feel really bad about the whole thing. It's not like I
lied to them—actually, I did. I just don't want them to be angry with me. I look up to see the
smile on Daddy's face and Mommy laughing out loud—even Jordan's enjoying the occasion.
I'm smiling as well, thinking to myself that this is the happiest moment in the history of my
family. It's just too bad that it all comes from a lie—well, half-lie (Yeah, yeah, I know: a lie is a
lie.)
After I finish my small piece of cake, I excuse myself to my room, carefully thinking
about what to say to Emilie. If she finds out that I bombed the MCAT, then she'll drop the
bomb on me. I wonder how she did, probably a hell of a lot better than me. She called twice
earlier, but I didn't pick up because I was drinking away my problems with Gabriel. Now I have
to call her back or suffer the polemical wrath of a Korean girl.
“Hey Emilie.”
“Hey Johnson. So how'd you do?”
“I think I did okay.”
“You think or you know?” What is it with everybody? I bombed, okay?!
“Well, I won't know until a month from now. So how'd you do?”
“Not to toot my own horn but I know I aced it. There was not one question I had trouble
with. I really think I got the prestigious 45T!” Emilie brags, clearly tooting her own horn.
“Wow! That would be amazing! I've been told that only a handful of people have ever
achieved that.”
“Yeah I know. It would definitely be amazing if I got the 45 also. Oh, by the way, did you
get my messages? I called you twice earlier but you didn't pick up.”
“Oh yeah, I did. Sorry about that. Gabriel did really bad so I had to console him...at
the...library,” I lie once more.
“Poor Gabriel. I guess he goofed around too much.“
“Yeah, he should've studied as hard as me or else he wouldn't be in such a big mess,”
I say, going along with Emilie as if I did just as well as she did on the MCAT.
“Or at least study just a little. Seriously, Johnson, if I was going out with Gabriel and I
found out that he did poorly on the MCAT, I would dump him. I don't like screw-ups.” I can't
believe what she just said! What a prude!
“How can you say that, Emilie?”
“What do you mean? Look, if he wants to be a screw-up, that's fine. I'm just saying I
wouldn't want to be with a screw-up.”
“Okay, so I guess everything for you is based on status, huh? You're such a typical
Asian.”
“Excuse me, Johnson?” Emilie asks, not believing what I just said.
“You heard me. I thought you were different, Emilie. I thought you were better than
that. I guess I was dead wrong.”
“Fuck you. How dare you talk to me like that?”
“How dare I? Did you even hear what you said? You sound like the typical Asian and
you know it. You want to know something else? I bombed the damn MCAT. I did miserably on
it. So since you wouldn't want to be with a screw-up, then that means you don't want to be
with me.” There's a long pause, longer than anything I've ever waited for.
“No,” Emilie mutters, finally saying something.
“No, what?”
“No, I don't want to be with a screw-up. So goodbye.” I can't believe this. First I do
miserably on the MCAT and now my girlfriend breaks up with me. Fuck the MCAT and fuck
her! I can't believe all this shit is happening to me. One day everything is great and the next
day, everything sucks ass. It sucks to be me! It's sucks to be alive! Today is the worst day in
the history of the world!
19
My phone is ringing off the hook—and not in a good way. I know it's Gabriel that keeps calling,
since each call is exactly one minute apart. Apparently, he's using the auto-redial feature on
his mobile phone. I just don't feel like talking to anyone. It's been three days since I took the
MCAT and I still feel miserable. I just want to be alone right now, right here in my room. Being
lonely is a blessing in disguise—no one bothers you, no one asks you for any favors, and
most importantly, no one criticizes you. That's how so many Asians truly are: lonely. They may
have a lot of friends and live in a big family but deep down they are truly lonely because they
have no one to share their problems with, no one to confide in, because they are too
ashamed to talk to anyone about their personal issues, in order to save face. I know because
I'm that way. I can't talk to anyone about how I truly feel, even with Gabriel. We both share the
same problems yet we don't talk about how we truly feel, because both of us have been
indoctrinated with saving face. I swear, Asians save face just to save their own asses!
“What?” I ask, finally picking up the phone.
“Since when are you so rude,” Gabriel snaps back, ready to fight.
“Since...” I pause for a moment, “look, I'm sorry. You're the one person that I shouldn't
be an asshole to.”
“No problem. I know you're upset. To be honest, I am too. But there's no use in
worrying about MCAT. What's done is done. We just have to keep our heads up. So let's go
out tonight. We'll go grab some dinner and go clubbing. A friend of mine is working the door
tonight.”
“I'm not in the mood.”
“Neither am I. But who cares? Let's just go out and have fun.” Gabriel's right; he's
definitely right.
“So is this a date? Because if it is, then I better get some at the end of the night,” I
joke, lifting up my own spirits.
“Sure, you'll get some. Some of your left hand—or right hand. I'm not sure which one
you use regularly,” Gabriel snickers, already lifting up both our spirits to normalcy.
“I use both hands regularly—on your mom.”
“You really need to get out because your comebacks are getting horrible.”
“Give me a break, I've been trapped inside my stupid house for three days.”
“So have I! But I'm still funny, unlike you, Johnson.”
“You're funny looking!”
“See what I mean? Horrible. I'm coming over.” Gabriel hangs up the phone quickly,
without the chance of me changing my mind. I really don't want to go out but I might as well. I
have no girlfriend, no future, no life—all I have is Gabriel. I really am a loser.
Gabriel comes over and heads straight into the kitchen, right for the refrigerator. He
grabs a loaf of organic rye bread, a red ripe tomato, some fresh green lettuce, a pack of
organic turkey deli meat and a jar of mayonnaise. He starts making himself a sandwich and all
this time he has only said one word: “Hello.”
“If your parents aren't feeding you, I can call CPS and have them arrested,” I kid,
watching him pig out on his sandwich.
“You'll be doing me a favor,” Gabriel laughs, his mouth still full of chewed-up food.
“Where are your parents?”
“They went up to Palo Alto to talk to Jordan's advisor about getting her into Stanford
Medical.”
“I thought Jordan's only a freshman.”
“I thought so, too. Apparently, that's not too young to start applying for medical school.”
“You know what would piss off your parents?” Gabriel asks, changing the subject. “If I
started going out with Jordan. Actually, that would piss you off, too, so that's a double-
whammy for me...wait...a triple-whammy!” Gabriel exclaims, holding three fingers to signify
Daddy, Mommy, and me.
“You'll be doing me a favor. Go out with her so that she'll be miserable, because that
makes me happy.”
“Well, if that makes you happy, then forget it,” Gabriel concludes, dropping the subject
of hooking up with my little sister—how disgusting!
“Anyway, why are you eating? I thought that we're going to go grab dinner before we
head out clubbing,” I say to him, leaning over on the kitchen counter.
“Yeah. This is a snack. I'm a growing boy,” Gabriel jokes.
“Sure. Look, I'm going to go get ready so just hang around and do whatever. But don't
surf porn on the computer. My dad keeps complaining to me about all the lesbian and gay
porn pop-up ads and I have to keep telling him that it has to do with Microsoft's security
vulnerabilities and bugs.”
“First of all, a little porn never hurt nobody. Second, those gay porn pop-up ads belong
to you, not me.”
“Third, you used a double negative in a sentence. You have to say 'a little porn has
never hurt anybody ',” I correct Gabriel, looking at him as if he just failed a writing
assignment.
“Yeah, people love to be corrected, Johnson. Keep it up, I just love that you keep
correcting me,” Gabriel stresses sarcastically, still munching on his sandwich.
With my best Southern accent, I drawl, “Well caution then. I won't learn you no more
since you don't like no grammar and all that fancy book learnin'.” I am sick of Gabriel's
shenanigan so I head upstairs to get ready. I'm just glad that I changed the password on the
computer before he arrived.
I decide to take my car—I mean, my parents'—since Gabriel will drive more recklessly
than ever, knowing that a bad MCAT score means a life not worth living. I head straight onto
interstate 5, going northbound, all the way up to LA.
“You should let me drive,” Gabriel insists, not giving up.
“You should shut up,” I say, my voice very steady.
“I will. Just tell me where you want to eat.”
“Anywhere, it really doesn't matter. As long as it's not Korean. I'm sick of Korean food
—and girls.”
“I told you to be careful with Korean girls.” Gabriel's right.
“And I told you that Emilie's hot.”
“She's not worth it. No girl is worth all that trouble.”
“I think every guy knows that. But guys just can't help it.”
“Women...” Gabriel murmurs, turning on the radio. We both hear The Stooges and
immediately start playing air guitar. Who needs women when you have The Stooges?!
We both decide to go eat in Little Tokyo, the Japanese district of downtown LA, before
heading to Club Mode in Hollywood, which is about twenty minutes northwest. Gabriel knows
the best Japanese restaurants since he use to come here all the time—not anymore because
he's sick of Asiatowns—so I let him take command by choosing our place of dining. We walk
past the Japanese Village Plaza towards a wide promenade full of restaurants. Gabriel points
to the gourmet restaurant, Seppuku, which he claims serves the freshest sushi and sashimi in
all of California, even though he's never been inside. There are several hostesses standing
outside, all wearing silk furisode kimonos in various bright colors and wooden Geta sandals,
with tightly braided hair in the style of geisha shimada. They greet us in Japanese and
welcome us in. Gabriel reciprocates by speaking Japanese and they all start waving their
hands, signaling that they don't understand. As we head inside, Gabriel turns to me and says,
with a surprised tone, “Those lying motherfuckers. They're fake Japanese!”
“Haha. What do you expect? You're dealing with Asians, for crying out loud. They'll just
grab a bunch of immigrants, pay them crap and teach them a couple of Japanese phrases,
just to provide the Japanese appeal for customers.” It's always about the money.
One of the hostesses leads us to the back of the restaurant, to a very dim room, with
the only light illuminating from candles on each table. Before sitting down, we both notice a
red rose with white filler flowers in a small, clear vase, in the middle of our table. The hostess
giggles a little to herself and leaves the room before I can say: “We're not gay!”
“A little gay never hurt nobody!” Gabriel laughs hysterically, getting me back for
correcting him earlier at my house.
“She thinks we're gay, not just me,” I retort, with a look of reproach.
“Oh yeah,” Gabriel concedes.
“We bombed the MCAT and now people think we're gay. Our lives can't get any worse
so who cares. Let's just eat.” Before I sit down, I grab the vase with the rose, moving it over to
the table behind us. I don't want anyone getting the wrong idea, not that there's anything
wrong with that idea.
I let Gabriel order because he has a culinary eye for Japanese cuisine—since he is
Japanese. As Gabriel peruses the menu, I look around the room to check out the other
customers. I see a Spanish couple to my right, an Asian couple across from us and an African
American couple behind them. We're in a room full of minorities. I hope this isn't intentional
segregation by the restaurant. I find it interesting that minorities all have black hair: Spanish,
Asian, African, Native American, even Jewish. I wonder if it's some ploy to relegate people
with black hair.
Gabriel finishes ordering and tells me that this will be the best dinner that I'll ever have
the pleasure of eating. I tell him that it could be the worst dinner that I'll ever have the
displeasure of eating, as long as he's paying. I'm really not that picky, but Gabriel is a
connoisseur of fine dining, like many native Japanese.
The hostess that presumes we're gay, brings in another couple into the room, a
Caucasian couple this time, to seemingly fulfill the affirmative action quota. We're in a room
full of couples, too. “You know, Gabriel, we're the only two guys sitting together. This doesn't
look good.”
“Quit being such a homophobe,” Gabriel urges.
“I'm not. I love the gays. I'm just saying this doesn't look good.”
“Have you noticed that none of the couples is wearing a ring? Look at their ring
fingers,” Gabriel directs observantly, with his habit of changing the subject.
“You're right. Well, we are in LA. No one gets married until...death.”
“I just think it's funny that everyone waits to get married in LA and everyone rushes to
get married up North.”
“That's the same with the Bible Belt states. I know a guy in Texas that just got married,
even before he graduated from college, just because he felt pressured from his other married
friends.”
“Yeah, people just follow. They see their friends and family members getting married so
they get pressured into following. Just like everyone here not getting married, so they follow
each other not to get married,” Gabriel assents.
“Marriage is so overrated. And so antiquated. People think that getting married will
solve all their problems, that they'll live happily ever after, like in a fairy tale. Then why is the
divorce rate over 60% and more people seeking marriage counseling than ever before? Hell, I
know several people that are married and are completely miserable.”
“Because being miserable with someone is better than being miserable alone,” Gabriel
kids, laughing at his own joke.
“Well, we both know that marriage won't help them solve any real problems, even their
insecurities of succumbing to peer pressure. In fact, marriage just creates a myriad of new
problems.”
“People give in to marriage and settle with one another, particularly with Asians. Of
course, there are people that are truly happy being married, like Congressman Ron Paul and
his wife, Carol Paul. But for the most part, people just do it because they see other people
doing it, to maintain the status quo,” Gabriel adds.
“Yeah. Let's not talk about marriage. I get enough of that crap from my parents.”
“Me too. Let's just talk about banging chics. I think we can both agree on that.”
Our waiter, also not Japanese—even though he's wearing a traditional Jinbei male
kimono—brings out a huge sushi boat, full of an assortment of delectable items: rows of
sashimi consisting of tuna, yellowtail, snapper, albacore, and mackerel; many pieces of sushi
including red salmon, sea urchin roe, and cuttlefish; small side dishes of seaweed, tofu, and
edamame green soybeans—simply outstanding! The boat itself is actually a small replica of a
pirate ship, with all the main parts: sails, masts, a ship steering wheel, an anchor, even a
white skull-and-bones black flag—very impressive! “This is just for starters,” Gabriel says,
smiling with glee.
After we sink the sushi boat with our ravenous appetite, the waiter comes out and
serves our entrées: for me, wagyu beef tartare with white alba truffle pieces in a light aioli
sauce dressing, plus, cilantro seasoning; for Gabriel, unagi with foie gras, covered in a rich,
savory kabayaki sauce, also with cilantro seasoning—simply marvelous! Gabriel mentions
that our dessert will be green tea sorbet, topped with vanilla ice cream and covered in anko
red bean mousse sauce—unfurling waves of paroxysmal pleasure go through me, as I make
a drooling sound like Homer Simpson.
This is truly the best dinner that I've ever eaten in my entire life. I'll give it to Gabriel;
he's definitely an expert when it comes to fine dining. I just wish he's an expert when it comes
to the MCAT instead!
We leave the restaurant, full to our stomachs and full of elation, and head over to Club
Mode in Hollywood. Most people think of Hollywood as the movie capital of the world, where
actors and actresses flow like water from a fountain. That's true, for the most part, except
most people don't know that Hollywood has the most crazy people in the world—no joke. I
remember seeing a guy walking down Sunset Boulevard in a skiing outfit—wearing actual skis
on his feet! I remember another time seeing a little person dressed up as Yoda from Star
Wars, painted green all over, carrying the classic wooden cane—and it was not Halloween.
Hollywood is fucked up but it's also a lot of fun. That's why we're going there tonight.
We arrive at Club Mode, in the heart of the Sunset Strip, and decide to skip the valet
because we're not a couple of prudes. And wouldn't you know it—the line at the door is full of
Asians. In fact, every single person is Asian and the vast majority are guys. Any girl that's
there seems to be with a guy already. I swear every time that I go clubbing, it's always a
sausage fest, aka sword fight, especially at a club full of Asians, with the average guy-girl ratio
being 100 to 1, very slight exaggeration, of course. I guess most of the Asian girls are locked
up at home by their parents. And I find it interesting that there's always an “Asian Invasion”
whenever I go clubbing. Asians like to show off their money and status and there's no place
better than at a club, where drinks at Club Mode are at least twenty dollars a shot. Plus, this
goes back to my whole theory on Asiatown, like Koreatown and Japantown. Asian people
congregate together because they are insecure and too afraid to be different, because of the
pressure to conform. They can't be unique so they have to share the same, common
archetypal culture, just like those Asiatowns. Why be a pauper fish in a big pond when you
can be a king fish in a small pond?
Gabriel and I head straight for the door, avoiding the long line of Asians. We get stone-
cold stares—similar to the one that I got from the old man with the CIA shirt—as we get to the
front of the entrance. Gabriel introduces me to his friend, James, the manager of Club Mode.
James tells us to go in and we are immediately swarmed by Asian people, as if we're
celebrities walking the red carpet. Even a little thing like being on the guest list is enough
status to attract attention from Asians. One Asian guy comes up to me and says that he'll buy
me drinks, if I let him come in with us. Another guy comes up and tells me that he'll get me a
table, which provides an ample selection of vodka and wine. I politely decline both offers and
as I walk in with Gabriel, two very beautiful and tall Asian girls grab the both of us by our
waists—tadow! Both of them are wearing snug-tight camisole tops, ass-hugging flirt skirts and
stiletto pumps with straps—oh please have mercy on me!
“You're cute,” one of the girls says to me. She's cuter.
“Take us with you,” the other girl insists, pulling Gabriel in. Whom are we to decline?
All four of us walk in together. There's no better entrance for two guys than with two
gorgeous girls—maybe three gorgeous girls, or four, or how about a hundred? Gabriel and I
introduce ourselves to Shirley and Janine, our newfound damsels of the night. I ask the three
of them what they would like to drink before I head over to the bar.
“A beer—any kind,” Gabriel requests.
“A vodka tonic,” Shirley requests.
“A Perfect Pussy,” Janine requests—woah!
“Excuse me?” I ask Janine, making sure that I heard right, hoping that I heard right.
“Perfect Pussy. It's my favorite drink.”
“It's my favorite now, too,” I happily announce. “I'll be right back!”
I order the drinks and bring them over. Shirley and Janine excuse themselves to go to
the bathroom. Gabriel and I tell them that we'll be waiting on the top level upstairs.
“So which one do you want?” I ask Gabriel, hoping that he picks Shirley so that I can
get Janine—and some of her favorite drink at the end of the night.
“I want Janine,” Gabriel answers briskly and adamantly, without hesitation. I knew he
was going to pick her!
“Damn it! Let me have her.”
“No.”
“I just broke up with Emilie and my parents are going to kill me for bombing the MCAT.”
“I haven't gotten laid in a year and my parents are also going to kill me for bombing the
MCAT. I win.”
“Actually, we both lose.”
“What?” Gabriel asks, caught off guard by my statement.
“Look below,” I direct, pointing my finger at Shirley and Janine dancing with two other
guys.
“Bitches!” Gabriel yells in disbelief. “They played us like two cheap hookers.”
“Actually, expensive hookers; those drinks alone were a hundred bucks.”
“Women...” Gabriel laments.
“Bitches!”
We decide to drink a couple of more beers before we head down to the dance floor.
Club Mode is actually rather spacious, with two levels and four bars, two at the bottom, two at
the top. There's also a huge lounge area next to the dance floor and a lounge area here at the
top. Most importantly, Club Mode provides a bountiful harvest of scantily clad Asian girls,
wearing the sexiest and skimpiest outfits: lacy halter tops, strapless corset dresses, skinny
satin pants, seductive swing skirts, and the most erotic of all, come-fuck-me shoes—stunning
spike heel platforms, peeping-tom pleaser pumps, thigh-high leather boots, strappy stiletto
sandals—oh please have mercy on me!
Gabriel taps me hard on my left shoulder and points to a go-go dancer up on stage
near the mezzanine. She is definitely gorgeous, amplified by the fact that she's almost naked,
wearing only a pink bikini bra and panty with white knee-high stripper boots.
“I want to marry her,” Gabriel maunders, the girl's ass-shaking dance spell hypnotizing
him into a trance.
“You want to marry her? No, you don't. You want to fuck her. Let's get that straight.
Would you really want to bring her home to meet your parents? Would you really want her to
take care of your kids? How about taking her to church? So no you don't want to marry her.
You want to fuck her,” I exact, gladly correcting Gabriel yet again. I hate it when guys say that
they want to marry a girl but in actuality, all they want is to do her.
“I want to fuck her,” Gabriel maunders, accepting my correction, the go-go dancer's
ass-shaking spell still hypnotizing him into the same trance.
We decide to stop being wallflowers and go down to the dance floor. There's a sea of
Asian girls dancing one-on-one, grinding against each other, their bodies inexorably chafing in
heat, as if the friction itself will seemingly cause a fire to ignite—oh please have mercy on me!
Gabriel squeezes his way in and starts dancing with two girls, hoping to start a fire himself. I
look around and see a voluptuous Vietnamese girl dancing by herself next to the stage. I walk
up to her and say “Hello.” She stares me right in the eyes, then looks me down from head to
toe and on the way up, she gives me a disapproving look and shouts, “Hello my ass!”
“I'm a doctor,” I lie.
“Really? Oh sorry, what's up?” she politely greets, changing her tone of voice.
“I will be a doctor,” I truthfully say. Actually that's a lie, too, since I'm sure that I bombed
the MCAT.
She turns her back to me and proceeds to walk to the lounge area. “Excuse me,
princess! You midget hoe!” I scream out, as she disappears into the crowd. See what I mean
about Vietnamese girls? They are short, small and grow up not having anything so they put
up a front to make people think that they're hot shit, like with so many Asian girls. And
coincidentally, when you tell them you're a doctor or lawyer, they'll give you the time of day all
of the sudden, letting down their defensive guard of insecurity. It's always about the money.
I rush over to Gabriel and push him out of the way so that I am sandwiched in between
two lovely ladies. Gabriel laughs and starts dancing with one of them from behind. We both
grind our way into oblivion—oh what a night!
Exhaustion overtakes us from dancing non-stop, so we head straight for the bar to get
drinks. Gabriel orders several more beers and I start talking about how much I miss Emilie.
He tells me to quit whining and bitching but I just can't help it. She dumped me because I did
poorly on my MCAT—and I still don't know my score! That's probably the absolute worst
dump in history—to get dumped for something that hasn't even happened yet.
After about eight beers—no...twelve or maybe fourteen...I lost count—I am completely
drunk and so is Gabriel. Gabriel maunders to me about how sober he is to drive. I tell him that
I'm sober enough to kick his ass if he drives, so he decides to talk to James about crashing at
his place, since he lives in Hollywood. Gabriel stumpers back, dangling a key and says that
we can go straight over to James's place. That's good news. I'm sick of all these Asian girls—
Asian prudes, I should say—anyway.
We leave Club Mode holding one another, with one arm across each other's shoulders,
because we are inebriated beyond our normal functions. As we walk together, I overhear a girl
saying, “Yeah, I'm going to fuck him. 'Cause he's rich.” First of all, I hate it when girls say they
are going to fuck a guy. They can't fuck a guy because they don't have something called a
penis. The guy does the fucking and the girls get fucked. Girls always think that they control
everything. Second, girls will fuck anything that's rich. Here's a joke, though I may be too
drunk to articulate:
A very rich, old man walks up to the youngest, most beautiful college girl that he's ever seen
and flat out asks, "Would you sleep with me for one million dollars?" She looks at him for a
moment and answers, "Nothing after that? Just one night of sex with you for one million
dollars? Hell yes I will!" The man then asks her, "Okay, how about for twenty dollars in the
back room over there?" The girl is completely in shock. "I would never! What kind of a woman
do you think that I am?" The man smirks and says, "Oh, we've already established what kind
of woman you are. Now we're simply haggling over the price." It's always about the money.
Gabriel miraculously guides us all the way to James's apartment, right off of Sunset
and...crap, I can't make out the sign—I'm too drunk! Luckily, Gabriel has a higher alcohol
tolerance, so we reach the elevator to get up to the fifth floor, the floor of James's apartment.
We both stagger down the hallway, and I finally notice that James's place is really nice and
looks really expensive. I wonder whom he had to sleep with to get his apartment.
Two locks click and the door opens, as we rush in. Gabriel and I stumble over to the
couch and pass out.
It's bright and early morning now, as I hold my head tightly because of an intense
headache, probably due to the hangover that I'm suffering at this moment and most likely for
the rest of the day. Gabriel's still asleep, not moving as I nudge him on the shoulder. During
the night—or really, really early morning, I should say—I heard moaning and squealing noises
coming from the bedroom, presumably because James was banging some chic—lucky
bastard. I walk over to the kitchen and open the refrigerator door. As I look for bottled water, I
hear the bedroom door open and someone walking to the kitchen. I look up to see the same
voluptuous Vietnamese girl who blew me off at the club—what a small world!
“Hello,” she says softly and politely.
I stare right into her eyes, then look her down from head to toe and on the way up, I
give her a disapproving look and shout, “Hello my ass!” Payback's a bitch, bitch!
Détente
20
Today's the big day. Today will make or break me—same with Gabriel, Emilie and every other
Asian person, at least the ones finding out their MCAT score, which is probably all the Asians
in Irvine. Today is D-Day for Asians. Today is D-Day for Gabriel and me.
The MCAT scores haven't actually been mailed out yet, but I received an email
announcement earlier today stating that they're available online. Of course, I'm too impatient
to wait for that damn letter, so I'm going to log in to my computer and find out my score—
except I'm too nervous to check. What if I do worse than bomb it? Actually, that's still bombing
it. What do I have to lose?—just everything.
I hear my mobile phone ringing, the caller ID flashing Gabriel's name. “Hey,” I answer.
“Did you check your score?” Gabriel asks, impatient as well.
“I'm...no I've haven't. Have you?”
“No. I'm too nervous.”
“Me too.”
“Are your parents home?”
“No. Why?
“Well, my parents are home and I don't want to be here when—“
“Come over then,” I interrupt, without the need for an explanation.
“Okay. I'm leaving right now.”
Gabriel comes over and heads straight for the computer this time, instead of the
refrigerator. “I'll go first,” he submits, ready to take the MCAT bullet.
“22T,” Gabriel mutters unintelligibly.
“What?” I ask, making sure I heard clearly.
“22T!” Gabriel yells, anger getting the better of him. I let it go because he has every
right to be upset. I will soon have that right, too.
“Alright. Let me check mine.” As I'm typing in my username and password, I feel a
sudden shock rush through me, like lightning through a metal rod in the middle of a wet field.
Here I go...
“21J” I yell in anger, louder than Gabriel.
“Are you thinking what I'm thinking?” Gabriel asks, clairvoyant in his inquiry.
“Yes. We've already made plans ahead of time, in case of an emergency—like this.”
“Alright. Give me a couple of hours to get the stuff.” I let Gabriel leave in silence. We
both know what we must do.
True to his word, Gabriel comes back in a couple of hours. He's holding a plastic bag,
full of the items for our plan.
“You got the stuff?” I utter gently, my voice quavering.
“Yeah, it was easy,” Gabriel utters gently as well, his voice not quavering. “That's the
good thing about being biology majors. We both know the most potent stuff to use.”
“Yeah. You know what's funny? I studied my ass off and you still ended up doing better
than me without even studying at all. You even got a perfect T for the writing sample.”
“Actually, Johnson, I did study my ass off. I just made it look like I didn't.”
There is a long silence between the two of us, a silence that we both find soothing and
comforting, a silence that we both experience as mutual harmony.
“I find it ironic,” I tell Gabriel, after an undisturbed, peaceful minute.
“What's that?”
“That we spent our whole lives trying to be doctors, with the chance to save lives, and
now we're doing the complete opposite.”
“Yeah, it is ironic,” Gabriel says, not laughing. “You know what's also ironic?”
“What's that?”
“You've always wanted to be a writer. Well, here's your chance to finally be one.”
“Yeah, that is ironic,” I say, also not laughing. “Well, give me an hour and I'll have it all
written out.”
I grab a pack of new, unopened multipurpose copy paper from the bottom drawer of my
computer desk. I open it, take out the first sheet, and with a despondent hand, I write:
Right at the outset, Gabriel and I, Johnson, both assent to the entire content of this letter, so I
speak for him as well as myself.
Asian culture, as with all cultures, has a myriad of wonderful traditions and customs that
contribute to society, traditions and customs that should be understood and appreciated.
However, Asian culture also has a myriad of not so wonderful traditions and customs that
impede society, which need to be understood but not appreciated. Contrary to the belief of
many, Asian culture is not perfect; Asian people are not perfect. In fact, many people do not
know the truth about Asian culture, the truth that it's fraught with problems, the truth that it's
fraught with greed, many other truths which I shall reveal. Allow me to delineate:
Asians are known to be quiet and reserved; the reason is because Asians wish to hide their
problems and insecurities. For instance, Asians possess many shortcomings (no pun
intended.) In general, Asians are short, small, skinny, minorities in America—even small down
you-know-where. To make up for these shortcomings, they imbue themselves with the
practice of overachieving: getting straight A's, high SAT scores, excelling at playing the piano,
becoming doctors and lawyers, buying luxury cars, living in expensive homes—in order to
conceal all their problems and insecurities, so to maintain a good image, aka saving face.
This provides the illusory perception that Asians are very successful and auspicious, but in
reality, they are very dysfunctional and maladjusted. Summarily, why are Asians so quiet and
reserved?—simple: to hide their dysfunctional and maladjusted lives, just to save face. Why
do Asians overachieve?—simple: to hide their dysfunctional and maladjusted lives, just to
save face. Asians can't have people thinking that they aren't perfect, even though they are
unequivocally far from it.
I, along with the vast majority of Asians all over the world, have been bred to only achieve
success, no matter the cost. We are raised like docile robots, manipulated for the agenda of
money, status and power, according to my Asian Pride Theorems, which I will explain
meticulously:
1. Money
2. Status
3. Power
It's as simple as that. Asians are obsessed about money and will exercise whatever means
necessary to obtain it. With money, they can achieve a high status—economical, societal,
political—“Image is everything.” With money and status, they have power: the power to
control, the power to influence, any type of power, even the most trivial, as long as it's power
—why? Because Asians have many shortcomings and know that they can't really be on top
so any power will do. Why be a pauper fish in a big pond when you can be a king fish in a
small pond?
Throughout the thousands of years of Asian dynasties, all the emperors, kings and
presidents have ruled with an iron fist and formidable will, controlling every aspect of the lives
of Asians. Because of the long duration and large-scale domination, it's only natural that
Asians continue living lives of subservience and docility, indoctrinated and conditioned beyond
belief. Asians, thus, can't stand up for themselves, instead, let themselves get pushed around
by those “above.” They only know how to serve and to follow orders, thus, stifling their
creativity and mental capabilities, resulting in the lack of intuition and preventing the utilization
of common sense. Therefore, Asians lack common sense, ingenuity, and intuition, so in turn,
they are easily manipulated into becoming machines to overachieve and overwork. That is
why Asians want power, even the most trivial power, because they've been controlled and
subservient their whole lives, so these powers—though little—are everything to them, since
they have nothing else. Asian culture has been this way for too long.
The main problem with the cupidity for money, status, and power is that it's cyclical,
forced down from generation to generation, which keeps going like a hamster on a wheel,
never stopping and getting deleteriously worse and worse. But all this can be changed since
life is about change. Life is not static; life is dynamic. It's always changing, just like us. Every
day is not the same, even the meals that we eat are very different. So if life's about changing
and people do change, Asian culture can also be changed, for the better.
Of course, many Asians feel that there's no need for change. Then why is the suicide
rate for Asian Americans astronomically higher than Caucasians, Hispanics, and African
Americans? Why does Asia have the highest suicide rate in the world? Why do two million
women attempt suicide in China every year, with many more not counted due to saving face?
Why is it considered normal to commit suicide in countries like Korea and Japan? This is not
normal. This is abnormal. This needs to change.
I must point out that there is nothing wrong with being Asian. There is nothing wrong
with being Chinese, Japanese, Korean, etc. In fact, it's okay to practice traditions and
customs, so that everyone can understand and appreciate them. However, focusing only on
your own culture is ethnocentric. Sheltering out other cultures is ethnocentric. Asians must
evolve by appreciating other cultures, especially here in America or else the problems will just
continue. Many Asians are indoctrinated with the ideology of ethnocentricity. Ethnocentricity is
what causes prejudice. By learning to understand and appreciate other cultures, Asians can
start understanding how to resolve issues and problems within their own.
Finally, some might say that things are the way they are and cannot be changed,
because Asians are too ingrained in their own culture. I'd like to point out that slavery use to
be the norm but that changed. Segregation use to be the norm but that changed. In fact,
Barack Hussein Obama became the first black president in the history of the USA in 2008,
ending the 200-plus-year reign of white and male. So anything can change, even Asian
culture.
The truth is that Asians are too afraid to change, because they've been indoctrinated
and conditioned too much to know how—that's why a billion people in China are willing to
serve and follow, even though they know that they're living lives of enslavement. But it's okay
to be afraid: Gandhi was afraid, so was Martin Luther King, Jr., so was John Lennon. But they
gathered enough courage to get people to work together, which is what we must do in order
for things to change, instead of being isolated in our own little Asian islands. By working
together and helping each other, we can change anything, instead of taking advantage of
each other or using one another. As Seymour Stein said: “When things can't continue going,
they have a tendency to stop.” If the problems of Asian culture can't continue going, they will
stop.
In conclusion, if Asians decide to change for the better, then they need to first admit
that there are problems with Asian culture—no more excuses. They will then realize that the
solution is to build better relationships by communicating more effectively and showing love
and affection towards one another—especially towards their own children. It's simple in
concept, but Asians make it seem like it's rocket science.
To Mommy and Daddy: I know that I have always been a disappointment to the both of you,
my entire life. I know that the both of you like Jordan more, her winning by virtue of
comparison. But I just want you both to know that neither of us feel any love from either of
you. I am very lonely. I cannot talk about my problems, share my feelings, confide in anyone,
because I have to save face. That's how so many Asians truly are: lonely. They may have a
lot of friends and live in a big family but deep down they are truly lonely because they have no
one to share their problems with, no one to confide in, because they are too ashamed to talk
to anyone about their personal issues, in order to save face. I hope the both of you can
change, for Jordan's sake.
To Jordan: I know that we have our differences, but please know that I love you.
To Gabriel's family: There's a bag of weed under his bed. Please don't smoke it but get rid of it
in case the cops come. Believe it or not, that's all he wants to say.
Summarily, I would like to state that no one person is at fault: not my parents, not me, not
society—but everyone. We all must work as one in order to change for the better. Or I will
always be yellow on the outside, shame on the inside.
I hand the finished letter to Gabriel. He reads it, smiles and gives me a hug, the hug
that I've always wanted from my parents, the hug that I'll never get from them. I lock the door
to my room and tell Gabriel that I'm ready. He replies that he's ready too. I wonder who will be
doing our eulogy...
OUT TAKES
Thank you very much for reading my book. I could not fit everything into my novel—for
one reason or another—so I decided to include this section of outtakes with proposed
scenes.
Question: Not all Asians are like this so why would you write about this stuff?
My Answer: Please read the introductory section of my book, A NOTE TO THE READER,
as I have stated my position with luminous clarity.
Question: Do you know that many people don't agree with you?
My Answer: Attaining assent and partiality from people—particularly from the general public
—is not my objective; my objective is to bequeath knowledge and information unto people so
that they can think for themselves. People today don't think for themselves, instead letting
corporate lamestream media rape their minds with propaganda and subliminal bullshit.
I recall a political cartoon in which a man sitting on a couch and sweating profusely,
yells to nine television screens in front him, collectively broadcasting ABC, CNN, FOX,
NBC...MSNBC: “I wish they would hurry up and make up my mind!”
I have the courage and audacity to write and publish my tenets; you should have the
courage and audacity to make up your own mind, not let me or anyone make it up for you,
especially not corporate lamestream media. If you don't agree with me, then write a book—
that's what I did.
Question: You mentioned that you're a “former Asian. ” How can you renounce
your ethnicity?
My Answer: In my book, I stated: “...why can't we all just be called Americans, since all of
us are, after all, Americans?” People are people, regardless of ethnic distinction; just because
I'm considered “yellow” or “chink” or “gook” or “slant-eyes” doesn't mean that I have to be.
I renounced my ethnicity (Chinese) because I do not like the egregiously selfish and
deplorable culture. People have said to me, “You can't change who you are.” Why don't they
tell that to those who got plastic surgery? They changed. Why don't they tell that to those who
got a sex change? They certainly changed. Hell, people even undergo skin pigmentation
surgery to make themselves “white” or “black.” They definitely changed. Summarily, people
don't define who you are; you define who you are.